


The Vampire's Valet

by magisterpavus



Series: the adventures of victorian vampire lord shiro & vampire hunter keith [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Victorian, BECAUSE IT TAKES THEM TEN YEARSSSSSSSS, Blood and Violence, Drama, Dreams and Nightmares, Dubious Consent, Evil Twins, Hurt/Comfort, Hypnotism, M/M, Major Character Injury, Multi, Murder, Mystery, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pre-Keith/Shiro (Voltron), Sexual Fantasy, Suicidal Thoughts, Teenage Rebellion, Trauma, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Tension, Voyeurism, but there's a sequel already posted dont worry, not between any of the listed ships tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27092062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterpavus/pseuds/magisterpavus
Summary: The year is 1878, the place is Lord Shirogane's quiet London manor, and the problem is that Keith never thought he wouldeverhave feelings for avampire.Alas, that's his life, now: sixteen, in love with a vampire lord, and also the valet for said vampire lord.The only thing left to do?PINE FOR NEARLY A DECADE.(The "prequel" to A Study in Scarlet~)
Relationships: Allura/Lotor (Voltron), Keith/Shiro (Voltron), Lotor/Shiro (Voltron)
Series: the adventures of victorian vampire lord shiro & vampire hunter keith [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1357825
Comments: 31
Kudos: 281





	The Vampire's Valet

**Author's Note:**

> A-HA! Here we are at last lol this story has been sooo long in the making but better late than never? Anyway here's essentially 27.5k of unresolved sexual tension/Keith pining (it gets resolved in A Study in Scarlet which is listed in this series - this is technically the prequel to that - so feel free to read that before or afterwards if you seek CLOSURE!)
> 
> The sequel will also be finished soon and I'm so excited to share it and possibly clear up some of the mysteries presented here ;D
> 
> warnings for....blood. a fair amount of blood. because vamps. also there's some light lotura, lotor/shiro, and keith briefly being a little creep (HE IS REPRESSED AND HE CAN LOOK BUT NOT TOUCH OOPS.)
> 
> ENJOY~

Keith ran, worn boots pounding against the cobblestones and breath ragged in his torn throat. He could feel the blood dripping slow and sticky-hot down his collarbones, staining all down the front of his threadbare shirt.

It was a chill evening and smog clung to the buildings, rendering the streets a kind of ghostly maze. In every narrow alleyway, Keith swore he saw looming silhouettes, the flash of hungry fangs eager to finish what they’d started. He ran faster, heart hammering away against his thin chest, breath puffing out before him and mingling with the thick gray smog.

Thankfully, the manor house of one Lord Shirogane was unmistakable, smog or not. It rose up out of the swirling miasma with severe regality, the Gothic ironwork along the slate roof tangling with the fog like a briar patch of intricate and organized design. It wasn’t a welcoming building; its narrow lead-paned windows glared down like so many suspicious eyes. But it was the only refuge Keith had. If his instincts about Lord Shirogane were right, anyway. If not – he might very well be walking into the jaws of death.

But he was bleeding far too much to run elsewhere. He had come this far, and so he hesitated only a moment before stumbling up the wide stone steps and grasping for the brass lion head door knocker, letting it fall in a dull thud of sound. In the silence that followed, Keith slumped, focusing on breathing, in and out, in and out.

When the door at last creaked open, almost cautious in its slowness, Keith blurted the first words that came to mind. “I want to work here.”

The person who stepped out of the shadows to face him was not a servant. It was strange, Keith thought dimly, that the butler had not answered the door first, but it was perhaps more strange that a Whitechapel orphan was making demands of a vampire lord.

He had seen Lord Shirogane before, but it was different to see him this close. In the orphanage, he had always seemed distant, a distinguished phantom drifting through the halls, always out of reach. Here, he was solid and real, yet that air of otherworldly, untouchable power still radiated from him. He stared down at Keith with an expression impossible to interpret, then blinked, and said, “Is that so?” He leaned a little closer, though just a little. “You’re one of the children from St. Mary’s…are you not?”

“Yes. My name is Keith.” Keith folded his skinny arms, heart pounding underneath his bloodied shirt, only serving to worsen the gush from the wound. “But I’m not a child. I can work as well as any grown man.”

Shirogane raised a single, dubious brow. “How old are you?”

“Fourteen.” Keith had not expected this interrogation. He expected to either be ushered in or ripped to pieces on the stairs, but Shirogane’s expression was now almost...curious.

“I see. And what work did you have in mind?”

“Anything,” Keith snapped, then stiffened in fear that his sharp tone would antagonize Shirogane, but the vampire’s face and voice remained utterly calm.

“It looks like you’ve gotten into some trouble,” Shirogane said, finally addressing the bloody elephant in the room. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with wanting to work here, would it?”

Keith stood there stiffly. “I can’t be on the streets any longer,” he admitted, quieter, wincing as he covered his wounded neck with a self-conscious hand, exhaustion settling over him now that the adrenaline had begun to fade. “Please. I won’t be any trouble. I...I can read and write well enough, and cook some, and clean whatever you want. You don’t even have to pay me. I just need — sanctuary.”

Absurd, perhaps, to seek sanctuary from such an unholy creature. The nuns would have been horrified. But they weren’t there to stop him, and standing in the shadowed doorway, silver hair and pale skin too bright to be real, Shirogane looked more like an angel than a devil. It was, of course, an illusion – but Keith would take what he could get.

Shirogane was quiet for a while, then widened the doorway, and stepped aside. “I have need of a steward,” he said. “You would be paid one hundred and thirty pounds a year, or two pounds and ten shillings a week. Is that acceptable?”

Keith’s eyes grew wide, hardly able to comprehend how much money was on offer, only knowing that it was _a great deal of money._ “I — I don’t know how to be a steward,” Keith managed, his voice more squeak than demand, now.

Shirogane waved a gloved hand. “It is simple enough, and I expect you will be in training for several years. There is no rush. Until you are fully prepared for that role, you may assist me as my valet. Your wages would be the same, though with some taken out to attend to my personal expenses.”

“I will do my best to be a good valet, sir,” Keith said, and he meant it.

“Yes,” Shirogane said, “I expect you will. Come in, then. You’re bleeding all over the stairs.”

Rather like the spider inviting the fly inside, Keith thought, but stepped over the threshold. Against all odds, Shirogane did not leap upon him as soon as the door was closed behind them, and instead kept a polite distance, his gaze sliding again to Keith’s neck, but with concern, not hunger. “You were attacked,” he said. It was not a question.

Keith frowned at the floor. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

Shiro stepped closer. Keith’s breath caught as the vampire’s shadow fell over him in the quiet foyer. “No,” Shirogane said, his voice soft, dangerously so. “No, it will not.”

Then he turned abruptly away, and nodded to the narrow hallway leading off from the parlor. “The maid will attend to your wounds, and the cook can provide you with supper. They will show you your living quarters, and if you have any questions, I will be upstairs in my study. Though, I would prefer not to be disturbed.”

“Oh,” Keith said. “Er — why do you have only one maid for such a large house?”

Shiro chuckled. “Not many are keen to work in the household of a vampire lord,” he replied. “Besides, I enjoy my privacy.” He paused, glancing back at Keith, his tone serious again when he added, “Nonetheless, you are welcome here, so long as you earn your keep. Goodnight, Keith.”

“Goodnight, sir,” Keith whispered, watching the vampire ascend the stairs without a sound before stumbling down the hallway to find the maid.

*

As it turned out, there were only three other servants in Lord Shirogane’s household: the maid, the cook, and the groom for the two horses in the carriage house. According to the maid, he had no use of a butler because he believed a maid could perform a butler’s duties just as well. He found it unnecessary to employ a man just to open the door.

“Don’t butlers do other things?” Keith asked as the maid, a woman with light brown hair in a tight bun named Mrs. Holt, but who insisted Keith just call her Colleen, carefully cleaned the ragged bite marks on his neck.

“Hold still,” she scolded, and Keith shut his mouth, wincing when she drew a cloth soaked in some sort of alcohol over the area. “Yes, but they do plenty of the same things maids do. Lord Shirogane rarely has guests; when he does socialize it is usually elsewhere.” She eyed him. “I suspect you caught him quite by surprise, knocking at the door and demanding a job like that. That takes some gall.”

“...I guess.” Keith frowned. “How did you get a job here, then?”

Colleen laughed, bandaging up his neck and sitting back to admire her handiwork. “It’s a rather long story,” she admitted. “But put simply...Lord Shirogane saved the life of my husband and son, once. He demanded no payment, but I pleaded to repay him somehow, and so he gave me a position in his household, as his old maid had just fallen ill and did not recover.”

“Are your husband and son…” Keith trailed off awkwardly, but Colleen understood.

“Very much still human, yes,” Colleen replied. “It was not _that_ sort of saving. Thankfully.” She shivered. “Lord Shirogane is...a decent man, but vampires still unnerve me. I have worked here, oh, ten years, now, and while I get gray hairs and crows feet, he remains utterly unchanging. It’s very strange — but I digress. Would you like some soup, dear?”

Keith ate the warm soup and delicious bread offered to him, far better fare than the nuns had given him, then found himself ushered up to his new room. He was startled to discover that it was not simply part of the servants’ quarters, but upstairs, just down the hall from Shirogane’s own quarters. When he mentioned this, Colleen coughed and said, “Well, it’s no wonder, if you’re to be training as Shirogane’s steward, and working as his valet in the meantime. Most valets stay in rooms annexed to their master’s. You _do_ know the duties of a valet, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Keith lied. _How could anyone sleep in such close proximity to a vampire? And...how closely was he supposed to sleep to Shirogane, exactly?_ Keith began to regret accepting a job when he had not the slightest idea as to what it entailed.

Colleen nodded. “Good. I think you’ll be a quick study. Sleep well — breakfast is ready for us at sunrise, but I’d advise you to keep quiet in the morning. Lord Shirogane does _not_ like to be woken early.”

Keith hesitated. “When...when _does_ he wake?”

“He usually rises at dusk, when the sky’s gone all orange. You’ll be expected to be there when he wakes, of course, and to have his dressing-room prepared and tidy, razors and linens cleaned and such, and the fireplace lit, though Lord Shirogane is a bit particular about the temperatures of rooms.”

She paused thoughtfully while Keith began to sweat, not because of the temperature of the room, but because he had not realized he would be more or less the vampire’s manservant. “Oh, and you mustn’t touch the curtains. Those tales of vampires burning to ashes in the sunlight are utter poppycock, but they’re quite sensitive to it, and rest assured he would not be pleased if you woke him with the sun. I believe that’s what his last valet did once, and it was quite the misstep.”

“Um,” Keith ventured to ask, “what...happened to the last valet?”

Colleen paled, and coughed again. “Ah – sensitive subject, that. He was more steward than valet, really, but – oh, it isn’t any of our business, but if you must know, Lord Shirogane had a falling out with him. They argued often, and –”

Keith’s eyes widened, apprehension curling in his gut. “A servant argued with a vampire lord?”

Colleen winced. “Yes. Theirs was...a different sort of dynamic. But nothing _happened_ to him; if that’s what you’re fearing, perish the thought. Adam just left in a huff one day and the master didn’t leave his quarters for...oh, almost a week, I think. It was very dramatic.”

“Adam,” Keith repeated, and frowned. “Hm. When was this?”

She waved a hand. “Almost a year past, now, I think. So I’m sure Lord Shirogane will be happy to have someone to help keep himself in order again. It has been...a difficult year for him. He and Adam were...close.” She coughed again.

“Are you ill?” Keith asked.

“Ahem. No, thank God.” She smiled thinly. “I’ll leave you to it, dear. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to make you more comfortable, hm?”

Keith agreed, and bid her goodnight, and sat on the edge of his new bed.

It was a shockingly large bed, after years spent crammed on the narrow mattresses in the orphanage dormitories, and before that, mere cots stuffed with straw. This was stuffed with goose-down, Keith thought dazedly as he sank slowly down onto it, staring at the ceiling. His neck still ached, but whatever poultice Colleen had put on it did help, as did the knowledge that the house he resided in was very well-guarded indeed.

The Ripper would not reach him here. Keith was certain of that much, and right then, that was enough.

*

He awoke past dawn, to sunshine creeping through the thick curtains, and scrubbed sleep from his eyes before bolting upright and taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. His neck gave a reproachful twinge of pain at the sudden movement, and Keith winced, touching it gingerly, pleased when his fingers did not come away red. He had not been ambushed in his sleep, then.

At the thought, Keith slipped out of bed and crept over to the door, opening it as quietly as possible and peeking out into the hallway. It was dim, as every window was curtained, and there was no sign of movement from down the hall where Shirogane’s door stood, a grand door of dark walnut. However, Keith realized after a moment of squinting, the door was open. Cracked open, but open nonetheless. Keith frowned, craning his neck and tilting his head to listen for any sign of life, but there was nothing.

Hesitantly, he took a step forward, his bare feet sinking into the heavy Oriental rug. One step, two, three, four...he paused and took the last few steps to Shirogane’s door, until he could grip the edge of the doorframe and peer inside.

The room was, of course, dark. There was another door, also ajar, leading to what must have been the dressing room, but the majority of the room was taken up by a large canopied bed. The canopy was, unlike the curtains, not drawn, so as Keith’s eyes adjusted to the gloom he could see the sleeping figure there, a motionless hillock of bare shoulders and the silvery gleam of mussed hair.

Keith could see only his back, but it was bare, exposing both the impossibly perfect musculature beneath the vampire’s skin, which Keith had also thought to be perfect – save for the scar across his nose – but which turned out to be slashed through with more scars, all across his back, like the marks that might be left by a whip. Keith covered his mouth to stifle his gasp, but the vampire did not stir.

Then he noticed that one of the vampire’s arms – the right one, curled just above the blankets – was missing. Or, no, that was not quite right...it was _different,_ the skin shadowed and faintly violet, not just dark but twisting, shifting in a way Keith could not explain. He just knew that the arm was not made of flesh, from the place where it joined Shirogane’s shoulder in a tangle of white scars, to the tips of the wickedly curving claws on each fingertip. He must have hidden them with his gloves, and perhaps some strange magic.

Keith backed out of the room and hurried back to his room. He dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen, thanked the cook for the hearty breakfast offered to him, and tried not to think of scars and lost arms as he ate his fill.

The day passed in quiet monotony. Keith helped Colleen with some of the household tidying, though she insisted he need not do so, and advised him to sleep in later in the future since Shirogane would likely keep him up late. Keith tried again to glean details about his duties, but she told him only the basics, and added offhandedly that Shirogane usually took his bath today.

Keith almost knocked over a vase that surely cost more than he would. “Sorry, _what?”_

“You’ll just need to draw up his bath,” Colleen replied, oblivious to his reddening face. “We don’t have those newfangled electric bathtubs yet, so you’ll just have to heat the fire in the copper pot over the fire upstairs, then pour it into the tub. At least we have running water!”

“Oh,” Keith said. “I – alright.”

“Though,” Colleen added, “the bathing likely won’t come until later in the night, after he’s had supper, so you needn’t worry about that right away. Other matters to attend to, first.”

Keith made a choked sound.

Colleen turned to him. “Dear, are you well?”

“Um,” Keith stammered, “I just – am _I_ supper?”

Colleen stared at him, then gasped and squeezed his arm, looking as alarmed as Keith felt. “What – no! Oh dear, no, _no_. Is _that_ what you thought it meant to be a valet? Lord Shirogane would never.” She shook her head firmly, and her certainty did make Keith feel better. “He takes his, ah, _meals,_ elsewhere. Unless he has a soiree here, and when that happens – which is rare, but possible – we are sent elsewhere, far away from the...feeding.” She shuddered.

“That’s good to know,” Keith croaked.

“It is, unfortunately, a reasonable thing to fear,” Colleen murmured. “I know other vampiric employers are not quite so professional.” She swept the next shelf with a little too much force. “But Lord Shirogane does not number among their kind.”

“I hoped he didn’t,” Keith admitted. “But I...I wasn’t sure. I thought, well, at least he might be better than the Ripper.”

Colleen’s face twisted. “The Ripper is a monster,” she said. “Lord Shirogane is a gentleman, and acts as such, thankfully. Come now, let’s finish up the parlor and I’ll sit you down to make certain you know how to be a valet. None of your duties include bloodletting – of that, my dear, I can assure you.”

*

Keith entered the vampire lord’s bedroom at dusk, much more confident that he could be a good valet than before, but his hands still trembled as he opened the door and padded into the silent room to the dressing-room.

The dressing-room was, surprisingly, a bit of a mess. At least Keith would have something to do. He began cleaning and rearranging as quietly as possible, but when he was polishing the last of Shirogane’s razors, he was startled by a silhouette in the doorway who said, “Good evening.”

Keith almost dropped the razor, but in his haste to catch it, sliced open the tip of his finger and hissed, sucking the cut digit into his mouth and setting down the bloodstained razor on the armoire.

Shirogane made a soft sound and stepped towards him. Keith had lit only one of the oil lamps, and in the wan, flickering light, Shirogane’s face was more shadow than skin. His right arm was already hidden under his shirtsleeves – when had he gotten dressed? How had Keith not heard him?

“You really must be more careful,” Shirogane said, and reached into his pocket, handing Keith something – a handkerchief, white, with the initials T.S. embroidered in black upon it.

Keith took it, wrapping his finger in the soft cloth. They both watched as a red stain bloomed over the white fabric. “Sorry,” Keith whispered.

Shirogane just shrugged, and cast his gaze around the dressing-room. His eyes were approving, if Keith was not mistaken. “I see you’ve already righted the absolute disaster I made in here.”

“It wasn’t that bad, sir,” Keith lied.

Shirogane’s mouth twitched. “Mm. Did Mrs. Holt inform you of your duties, or shall I go over them with you?”

“I – think I know them well enough, sir.”

Shirogane nodded to the bloodied razor. “Do you actually know how to use that?”

Keith flushed, then scowled, touching his soft face self-consciously. “In theory, _sir.”_

Shirogane’s lips curled in amusement. “Right. Well, I’m not in need of a haircut any time soon, but you will have to learn, someday. Tonight, however, don’t worry about any of that. I will walk you through it. Does that ease your nerves?”

Keith blinked. “I’m not nervous.”

“Yes, you are,” Shirogane said without skipping a beat, and stepped into his space, though only to turn on the sink and wash the razor clean, wiping it with a cloth and setting it aside with no indication that he even noticed the blood. “Tell me, Keith, why did you ask to work in a vampire’s place of residence if you fear vampires so much?”

Keith was quiet, at a loss of what to say to _that,_ and Shirogane added, quieter, “Not that those fears are unfounded. I am just curious – did the orphanage turn you out? I thought they kept children ‘til sixteen, at least.”

“The orphanage wasn’t safe,” Keith blurted out.

Shirogane’s eyebrow lifted higher. “And my home is?”

“I hope so,” Keith replied, and something in the vampire’s face softened, so subtle Keith almost missed it, but he was sure it was there. “And, well, the nuns never liked me much.”

“No,” Shirogane said under his breath, “I don’t think they liked me either.”

“But you were – are – the orphanage’s patron, sir,” Keith said.

“They do not have to like me to accept my patronage,” Shirogane sighed.

“Then why do you give it to them?” Keith demanded.

Shirogane glanced at him. “I would hope my money does not go to the nuns,” he said, pointedly. “That may be another reason they do not like me. For all they speak of spurning greed and avarice, they are only human, after all.” He cleared his throat. “Now. If you wish to be my valet, listen.”

Keith listened.

*

By midnight, Shirogane had gone through the long list of Keith’s duties, with various asides to say that if Keith ever felt overwhelmed by any of it, he ought to say so, which baffled Keith a great deal. Servants were not meant to complain; he knew that much.

But he nodded politely and listened attentively as Shirogane walked him through all of it, wondering all the while why Shirogane was taking the time to do so at all. Probably he just wanted it done right, especially after how suddenly the last valet had left.

Keith resolved that he would be a better valet than Adam – surely that would not be difficult.

“Do you have any questions?” Shirogane asked after he had gone through the entirety of his wardrobe with Keith, then specified what Keith would be expected to wear – they would go to the tailor together next week – though Keith did not fully know what a “swallow-tail coat” or “sacque suit” was, he expected it would be far better than his current attire, judging by the vampire’s rather impressive collection of clothing.

Keith shook his head, then paused, and added, “How late would you like me to stay awake, sir?”

Shirogane blinked, then laughed – though, at himself, Keith thought, not at Keith. It was a quiet little laugh, embarrassed. “Oh – as late as you would like. Most nights it will not be as late as this, though I would suggest sleeping in later than the other servants. Some days I will be awake by late afternoon, so it really depends. Though, tonight, I may trouble you to stay awake a while longer. I must call upon a friend, and when I return, I would be glad to have a warm bath waiting for me. If you are too tired, however –”

Keith puffed out his chest. “I am not too tired, sir. You will have a bath when you come home.”

Shirogane smiled at him. He had a nice smile, though he smiled close-lipped, fangs concealed. “Thank you, Keith. Could you fetch my evening coat, please?”

Keith found it straightaway and helped Shirogane with it, faltering when he felt the strange lack of warmth from the vampire’s body. It was not cold, just...not hot, either. He stepped back. Shirogane buttoned the last button and grabbed his hat.

Then Keith remembered the handkerchief, hastily shoved into his pocket. He drew it out as Shirogane walked to the door, and the vampire froze mid-step with a sharp inhale. “Do you want this back, sir –”

“No,” Shirogane said, sharp and short, and left Keith standing there alone, the bloodied handkerchief dangling from his fingers.

*

Later, after Keith had filled the bath with steaming water and bath salts, he felt like to collapse at any moment from drowsiness. But he steeled himself, tidying up the dressing-room further as he waited for Shirogane’s return.

When the vampire lord did return, it was as sudden as the first time, but he gave no greeting, only stepped silently into the dressing-room. Keith did not cut himself on another razor, but he did swear, only to fall silent as Shirogane stepped into the light.

His skin was flushed, glowing with health, but his eyes were heavy-lidded and languid, and the corner of his mouth was smeared a lurid, unmistakable red. He looked the very picture of macabre decadence. Keith swallowed as Shirogane shed his coat, letting it crumple on the floor.

“Thank you for the bath,” Shirogane said, his voice low and strange, and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. As his undershirt was revealed, Keith saw more red, not splatters but droplets, speckles, subtle but present. He stared.

Hands pausing on his undershirt buttons, Shirogane cleared his throat, leveling a gaze at Keith through the rising steam above the clawfoot tub. “You may go, Keith,” he said. “Sleep well.”

Keith fled from the room, heart pounding so loudly he knew Shirogane must have heard it as he removed his bloodstained clothing and sank into the bathwater with the heavy satisfaction of a sated carnivore.

*

It was startling how quickly they fell into a rhythm.

Keith was a quick learner, and Shirogane was not so difficult a master, despite his eccentricities (of which there were many) and his vampirism (which was a source of both fear and frighteningly strong curiosity for Keith). In fact, at times Keith felt as though Shirogane was his servant, as backwards as that was – the vampire lord went out of his way to make Keith accustomed to life in his household.

He spent an exorbitant sum of money on Keith’s new wardrobe, and when Keith asked about the previous valet’s wardrobe, Shirogane snorted and said, “No, no. You’re much smaller, and besides, he had appallingly boring taste in clothing...and everything else.”

(Keith quickly learned not to ask questions about Adam. Shirogane never got cross at him for it, but it was obviously not his favorite subject.)

Keith thought the clothes would be the end of Shirogane’s gifts, but he was quite wrong. He was polishing Shirogane’s boots when the vampire lord abruptly woke several hours earlier than usual, startling Keith so badly he almost knocked over the bottle of bootblack (Shirogane caught it before it could spill, because of course he did) and declared, “You ought to spend more time in the library.”

“Excuse me?” Keith wheezed, still catching his breath.

“Your letters,” Shirogane said. “Do you know them? You will need to know them very well if you are to be my steward someday, and numbers, as well. But we will start with letters. I like them better. Follow me.”

Keith followed him, bemused, to the library. It was a stately room beside Shirogane’s study, and Keith had never ventured into it before – it did not seem to be the kind of room meant for him. But Shirogane gestured for him to sit down on the settee, and went about selecting books.

Keith shifted anxiously, unable to peel his eyes away from the towering, overstuffed bookshelves, broken only by the large bay windows, which were lined with an impressive variety of ferns. “I’ve never seen so many books, sir,” he admitted.

“Centuries worth of collecting,” Shirogane retorted, and Keith paused, leaning forward slightly.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Keith ventured, “how old are you, sir?”

Shiro paused, then slid the last book from its shelf, and turned to face him with a crooked smile. “You truly want to know? I think most humans find such things unnerving. Poor Mrs. Holt certainly does, but we cannot fault her for that.”

“I am not most humans,” Keith said. “Sir.”

“Mm,” Shirogane mused, “perhaps not.” He returned to the settee, sitting across from Keith in the armchair and laying the books out upon the table. “Pick one.”

Keith blinked down at the books. He did know his letters, but struggled with them, and all of the volumes looked quite thick. He pointed to the slimmest of them. “Er... _The String of Pearls_?”

Shirogane grinned, the barest flash of fangs. “A penny dreadful, and one of the better ones, at that,” he said. “Excellent choice. A bit grotesque, however.”

Keith didn’t know what that meant. “Alright,” he said, and took the book. He flipped it over, and furrowed his brow at the blocky letters printed there. “Wait... _The String of Pearls: A Domestic Romance_? Why do you own this book, sir?”

“It’s a very misleading title, not that there’s anything the matter with romances,” Shirogane said. “Have you never heard of it? The main character is quite famous. Sweeney Todd.” Keith looked at him blankly. “Hm. Maybe you ought to choose a lighter read, then –”

Telling Keith not to do something was the quickest way to get him to do it. Keith kept the book. “No. I want to read about this Sweeney Todd fellow and his domestic romance.”

“As you wish,” Shirogane chuckled, “but do not blame me if you are wary of meat pies for the rest of your life.”

*

Keith read the book in three days and returned to Shirogane with a million questions.

“Is this real?” Keith squawked, waving the book around until Shirogane plucked it from his flailing hands, rightfully worried he was going to damage it. “Is there really a demon barber on Fleet Street who makes people into pies?”

“Of course not,” Shirogane said. “It’s a work of fiction.”

“But how could somebody write such a thing?” Keith demanded. “How did they possibly come up with it?”

Shirogane tapped the side of his head. “The imagination is a marvelous thing. Though sometimes it can be used for such devious acts as writing this book.” He winked. “Would you like to read another book? Perhaps something more tame –”

“I want to read more about Mrs. Lovett,” Keith interrupted. “Why would she make them into meat pies? Why would she hide Mr. Todd’s secret if she knew he was going to kill her eventually anyway?”

“She loved him,” Shirogane said. “Thus, the ‘romance’ title.”

Keith wrinkled his nose. “That’s not love,” he said. “That’s madness. Isn’t it?”

“Quite right,” Shirogane agreed easily, and went to pick another book from the shelves. He held it out. “You may find this one a bit less mad, though not exactly cheerier.”

Keith took it. There was an illustration of a castle on the front. “ _The Castle of Otranto_. Hm. Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Shirogane warned.

*

Not a day later, Keith exclaimed to Shirogane while helping him pick out his evening outfit, “I thought you said it would be less mad than the first one, but it’s even worse! Everyone is just running around babbling about curses and daughters and stabbing each other! Everything could have been avoided if they just stopped to talk for once.”

“I’m glad you’re so passionate about literature,” Shirogane said, trying to keep a straight face. “I think the point of the story _was_ the drama and the stabbings, not healthy communication.”

Keith scowled. “Well, that’s absurd. Just once I want to read a story where people sort out their problems and don’t murder each other.”

Shirogane thought for a while, then said, “I don’t know if such a story exists, but I do have one for you about a highwayman and his trusty steed.”

Keith’s eyes lit up.

*

The next afternoon in the library, Keith was very distraught, and failed to hide it though he tried valiantly. Shirogane was saying something about a detective and his assistant, but Keith barely heard him. Finally Shirogane sat down in front of him with a frown and cleared his throat. “Keith? Is something the matter?”

“The horse _died,”_ Keith whispered, holding up the offending book, which featured the ill-fated horse plastered across the cover. _“How could they do that?”_

Shirogane opened his mouth, then closed it. “Ah,” he said. “I did not know you were so fond of horses.”

Keith pushed the book away from himself. “It isn’t that! I mean – I am fond of them, but that’s not why it’s wrong! She was so loyal to him! She carried him fast away from every one of his crimes, did her best to help him, and he just let her die when she needed him most – it’s Mrs. Lovett all over again!”

“It’s a horse, Keith,” Shirogane started, but Keith flung down the book and shook his head, overwhelmed in a way he could not name. He didn’t look at Shirogane, and eventually the vampire murmured, “Keith. It – it’s alright. I’m sorry. I didn’t know that the book would upset you.”

Keith wiped angrily at his eyes. “It didn’t. I’m fine, sir.”

Shirogane made a quiet sound that said he disagreed without so many words. Then he stood up and left the library.

Keith sat there uncertainly, lifting his head and glancing about. Should he leave? Alone, the library was more oppressive; the full shelves felt as though they were closing in on him. Suddenly, Keith desperately needed air, and stumbled in a hurry to the window, flinging open the sash and bracing himself on the sill, breathing shallowly. The ferns swayed in the night breeze.

He scrubbed at his eyes. A damn horse. What must Shirogane think of him, weeping over a dumb beast? Or maybe _he_ was nothing but a dumb beast in Shirogane’s eyes – not just an orphan child, but a creature far beneath him by its very nature. Nothing in the way Shirogane had treated him thus far was evidence of this, but still – he may not know how old Shirogane was, as he had never actually answered the question, but to a being like him, Keith must seem awfully young and foolish indeed.

Not knowing what else to do, Keith started wandering around the library, looking at the colorful spines of the books, desperately trying to distract himself, and maybe even find a happy story among them. He lost track of time completely, and anxiously wondered if Shirogane was clearing out his quarters and packing his bags for him to send him politely on his way...at least, until Shirogane reappeared in the library with a tea tray.

Keith turned and stared at him. Shirogane set the tea tray down on the coffee table with the utmost gentleness. “What,” Keith stammered, and shut his mouth to prevent any more embarrassing noises from coming out.

“I made tea,” Shirogane said, and sat in his armchair, pouring the tea and gesturing to the settee. “Please, sit. It may help. Hopefully. I brought, er, biscuits, too.”

Keith sat on the settee. “Biscuits,” he repeated. He gingerly took the cup of tea and sipped it. He burnt his tongue, but he hardly cared. His throat was tight as he took a biscuit. “You should not be making me tea, sir,” he said.

Shirogane shrugged. “After two hundred and eighty-nine years, I also should not be alive, according to the all-knowing nuns, so I believe ‘should’ is a somewhat gray area for me.”

Keith set down his cup and peered at him in disbelief. “That’s very old,” he said. So old Keith could hardly even imagine it, truth be told.

Shirogane huffed at him. “Yes. I’m well aware.”

Keith squinted. “Your hair is gray, but nothing else is. How does that work? How do vampires age without aging?”

“It’s _silver,”_ Shirogane retorted, “and it’s...complicated.” He leaned forward, a glint in his eye. “But I have time. Lots and lots of time.”

“Is it true that vampires can live forever?” Keith whispered, the dead horse and Mrs. Lovett forgotten, the steam curling in the air between them, smelling of books and bergamot.

“I don’t know,” Shirogane replied. “Perhaps someday, when forever comes, I’ll find out.”

*

That was the first time Lord Shirogane made him tea, but it was not the last.

Keith had been in Shirogane’s household for about six months before his first night terror arrived – it took longer than he had expected, given that the night already brought paranoia and dread of what lurked in shadows. And when the dreams did come anew, they were far worse than he had imagined.

He was running again, running through the twisting dark streets of London, but everything was ablaze, and all around him he heard the crackling hiss of flames overlaid with distant screams, cries for help, cries he knew. His lungs burned in his chest as he pressed onward, searching desperately amongst the fire for a familiar face, the face of his father. Keith _knew_ he was out there, trapped, pleading for someone to save him.

But he could not stop to look. He could not stop because something was chasing him, all hot breath and snapping jaws, pursuing him over the uneven cobblestones with inhuman speed. Keith could never outrun it, but he had to try. He urged himself ever onwards, straining forward until his breath stopped short and his aching feet tripped over themselves, sending him careening into nothing, a scream caught in his throat as sharp claws closed around his wrists and teeth like straight razors sank into his throat –

_“Keith._ Keith, wake up, you’re dreaming, _shh –”_

Keith awoke in a blind terror, flailing and writhing in sweat-soaked sheets, his wrists held immobile in an iron grip.

The instant he opened his eyes, his wrists were released, and he gulped in air, staring at the pale face hovering above his bed, the glowing golden eyes. For a long and awful moment, he thought the Ripper had found him, had trapped Keith within his thrall, and he could do nothing but lay in frozen shock before his blinking eyes made sense of the face, and realized it was not the Ripper’s, and he was not held by any thrall.

“Sir,” he croaked, his throat dry as a desert, his body beginning to tremble as the force of the dream washed over him again, cold and terrible. “I’m – you –”

“It was just a dream,” Shirogane whispered, sinking down into the chair at Keith’s bedside, the one he often used for reading the books the vampire gave him. “You were crying out. I was worried.”

“I’m sorry,” Keith whispered back, still dazed, struggling to understand the situation; the fact that Shirogane was in his bedroom, eyes more concerned than Keith had ever seen them, despite their eerie glow.

“Don’t be,” Shirogane said. “Are you alright?”

Keith peered at him, and slowly sank back down, relaxing against his pillow. He nodded slowly, and wet his lips. “Thank you for...waking me.”

Shirogane inclined his head. “I apologize if it frightened you further. I would have had Mrs. Holt wake you, but she is fast asleep, so…”

“I’m glad it was you,” Keith blurted, and the vampire paused, head tilting. “I – I mean,” Keith stammered, and stopped. He swallowed. Shirogane waited. “I was dreaming of the Ripper,” Keith said. “But I think – I don’t think you would let him hurt me. Would you?”

Shirogane’s brow lowered. “Of course not.”

Keith nodded again. “Good,” he whispered. “The Ripper frightens me, but I think he is frightened of you.”

“I see.” Shirogane made a quiet sound, then rose from his chair. “I will be awake, as always, if you have need of –”

Keith did not know why he did it, but he grabbed the vampire’s wrist as he passed beside the bed. Shirogane could have easily broken free of his grip, could have brushed Keith off like an unwanted moth or jerked away hard enough to break fingers, but instead he stopped.

“Stay,” Keith said. Shirogane looked down at him, brows lifted in unspoken question. “Please,” Keith added. “I don’t...I don’t think I will sleep tonight if I am alone, sir.” It was the truth. Keith braced himself for Shirogane to decline, polite though it would be, and leave him to fend for himself in the dark with his demons.

But Shirogane just nodded, and as Keith let go, he returned to the chair beside the bed. “I will stay as long as you wish,” he promised, and Keith believed him.

He did not dream anymore that night, and when he awoke, the chair at his bedside was empty, but there was a tea tray on the nightstand with breakfast, and to his confusion, Shirogane was not asleep in his own quarters but wandering around Keith’s room with his strange, silent footsteps, pausing here and there, stopping before the painting that hung on the far wall. It was a landscape in oils of a stately house in the rolling, wooded, impossibly green countryside, and it looked too beautiful to be real.

As Keith sat up, rubbing his eyes, he mumbled, “Why’re you awake? It’s morning…”

It was in fact _late_ morning; the sunlight streaming in through the gap in the curtains was the bold bright light of noon, and yet the vampire stood, awake...though when he turned to face Keith, the movement was sluggish and he looked haggard, to say the least.

“Good morning,” Shirogane said. “I would ask how you slept, but I was here the whole time. No more dreams, I hope?”

Keith shook his head. “You should be asleep, sir,” he said, again, pointedly.

Again, Shirogane ignored him. “I made tea,” he said. “It’s chamomile. It may soothe your nerves.” He crossed the room and poured the tea, offering Keith the cup before he could protest. He frowned, but drank it, gazing at the painting as he did so.

“What is it a painting of?” Keith asked.

Shirogane followed his gaze as if he hadn’t just been staring at the painting. “A place just west of Brighton,” he said.

Keith’s eyes narrowed. “Who painted it?”

Shirogane sighed. “An old friend,” he said.

“It’s nice,” Keith offered.

“Nice,” Shirogane repeated, and sighed again, more heavily – verging on dramatic after the previous sigh. “I suppose.”

“Are you still friends?” Keith asked.

Shirogane eyed him. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Keith frowned. “What would you say, then?”

Shirogane snorted, just a little. “Blunt, aren’t you? It’s almost refreshing.” He paused, and turned to go. _“Almost.”_

“Lord Shirogane,” Keith said, sitting fully upright, tea uncertainly cradled in the palm of his hand and sheets tucked close around him. Shirogane looked back at him, hand on the doorknob. “Thank you,” he said. “For staying. It...means a great deal, sir.”

Shirogane blinked at him, then gave him a small smile and said, “Shiro.”

Keith faltered. “What?”

“You may call me Shiro,” he said, “if you wish.”

Keith laughed, because he was startled, utterly caught off guard. “Very well, sir,” he said.

Shirogane – Shiro – chuckled and shook his head, then left Keith to his tea, his shadow receding down the hallway to his bedroom, followed by the slow thud of the closing door. Keith let out a breath he did not realize he had been holding and cupped the tea as he took another sip, as bewildered as he was delighted.

_Shiro._ What a strange vampire.

*

“We will have a very important visitor today,” Shiro announced on the eve of Keith’s fifteenth birthday – not that Shiro knew that. Keith had nearly forgotten it, himself. Birthdays were irritating things; in the orphanage they had just been reminders of being a year closer to being turned out on the streets to fend for himself. Now...well, Keith still didn’t care much for birthdays. They probably meant even less to vampires.

“Oh?” Keith straightened Shiro’s cravat and stepped back. The vampire had often told him that was not necessary, but Shiro always tied it slightly crooked, and it bothered Keith to no end. “Who are they?”

“Her name is Allura,” Shiro replied, watching him carefully. “She wants to meet you.”

Keith was unsure what to make of this. “Why is she important?”

Shiro blinked at him, then chuckled and shook his head. “She’s a dear friend. One of my dearest. She has been abroad in Paris with her husband for the past year, and we have been eager to see each other again.”

Keith frowned. He did not know what Shiro meant by ‘dear.’ If this Allura was married, surely Shiro would not...then again, he did not know much of vampiric morality or romance. “I see,” Keith said. “What time are you expecting her?”

“Oh, before midnight, I should think,” Shiro said, and Keith suppressed a sigh. Another late night. He had hoped he would grow used to it, but more and more he found himself in danger of nodding off. Shiro was a popular vampire, always out and about around the city at odd hours, and often Keith was up late waiting for him to return.

Though Shiro had told him he did not have to stay awake, there was something inexplicably sad to Keith about the thought of Shiro returning home with no one to greet him – to a dark, silent house, where he was the sole creature stirring in its drafty halls. So Keith stayed awake.

Allura arrived before midnight as Shiro had predicted, and as she stepped out of her carriage and started up the steps, Keith watched in wordless awe from the window.

She wore a long brocade gown in deep purple, and her hair was a striking silver, done up in a dizzying array of black ribbons and glittering hairpins. In the moonlight her rich brown skin glowed, and Keith found her even more unearthly than Shiro in the way she moved – smooth and measured, so that it seemed her slippers never touched the cobblestones; she floated up the steps to the house.

Keith opened the door for her, and she looked down at him with pale and glittering eyes. “Why, hello there,” she murmured, her voice lilting and almost playful. “You must be Shiro’s new valet. What a little gentleman you are.”

From anyone else’s lips, her words might have sounded mocking, but Keith found himself thanking her and quickly stepping aside to let her in, all the while wondering if she had used her thrall, yet knowing she had not – she was just truly that charming.

She and Shiro embraced where they met in the parlor and Keith watched with open curiosity. To say Lord Shirogane was not a tactile or affectionate man would be an understatement. Keith had never seen him touch _anyone_ – or any _thing,_ for that matter – with as much tenderness as he touched Allura then, brushing his fingertips across her cheek with a soft smile before they each retreated to their respective seats, and Keith served the tea.

They chatted about Paris, but kept all conversation vague and shallow. Keith was no fool; he knew Allura kept glancing at him, and over the course of the visit, a cold fear began to lodge itself in Keith’s throat. Shiro had said Allura wanted to meet him – could he mean that she wanted to take him away from here, for her own? Keith knew it was not uncommon for vampires to trade thralls – but he wasn’t a thrall. Shiro wouldn’t do that. Would he?

“Keith,” Shiro said, startling him out of his thoughts. “Come, sit with us. Allura has something important to ask of you.”

Keith’s heart pounded. Shiro _wouldn’t_ do that, wouldn’t just pawn him off to his...his dear friend. Keith had tried to be a good valet. He thought he had been. But what did he know about being a valet, really? Perhaps he had failed. Perhaps –

He sat down numbly. “What is it, madam?”

Allura looked tickled, and Keith wondered what he had done wrong, now. Shiro opened his mouth, but Allura held up a hand, and to Keith’s disbelief, Shiro closed his mouth. Whoever this Allura was, she was higher up in the pecking order than Shiro...which made Keith fear her all the more.

“It is a most urgent matter,” Allura replied. “Shiro has told me much of you, and of how you...came to work for him.” Keith stiffened. She lowered her voice. “If you’ll forgive me for asking – for I do not wish to unearth any awful memories – I wondered if you could provide any description of the Ripper, anything at all. You see, we believe he has struck again in Whitechapel, and I am part of a private investigation to…” She trailed off. “Oh, dear. You’ve gone white as a sheet.”

“Keith,” Shiro murmured. “She’s a friend. She wants to help. Breathe.”

Keith stayed silent, words clicking and dying on his dry tongue. The vampires exchanged looks, and Allura muttered, “Shiro, really, it would be far more efficient to thrall him and find the answer that way, with no harm done if his memory of the interrogation is erased –”

_“No,”_ Shiro hissed with sudden vehemence, eyes flaring briefly gold. “We – no. I’m sorry, Allura, but I cannot allow you to do that to him. He has had enough of that. Never again.”

Allura’s eyes widened, then narrowed, her expression settling into a thoughtful one. “I see,” she said. “I did not realize you were so attached.”

Keith barely heard her. He blinked at Shiro, the vampire lord’s words settling in his mind. _Never again._ He relaxed, bit by bit. Shiro wouldn’t thrall him, nor allow his dear friend to do so. Keith exhaled, and both vampires looked at him.

“He was – tall,” Keith started, nervously wringing his hands in his lap and avoiding both of their gazes. “His skin was – not pale, but not so dark, either. He had long hair, I think, and it was light, um, white, like...like yours. Both of yours.”

“An old vampire, then,” Allura murmured, her brow creased in thought. “And his thrall? What did it feel like?”

“Allura…” Shiro started, but Keith took a deep breath, steeling himself as he forced himself to remember the awful feeling of being trapped in one’s own body.

“Bad,” Keith whispered. “It felt...like drowning. I couldn’t move, and it hurt when I tried to. I couldn’t even move my eyes, and he – his voice, it was _everywhere,_ echoing in my head, and I felt – I _felt_ his hunger, and, and madness. I don’t know. He wasn’t _right._ He was so – so full of _hate.”_

Shiro reached across to him and his gloved palm folded over both of Keith’s bare and trembling hands. It was a small touch, but a comforting one. “Thank you, Keith,” Allura said quietly. “This is troubling, indeed. It seems our Ripper is both old and powerful. Is there...anything else?”

Keith hesitated, then nodded jerkily, finding strength in Shiro’s hand over his own. “I didn’t realize until later, but I think there was something wrong with his teeth,” he said. “They...they were smaller. Just as sharp, but smaller than yours, not as thin or curved.” He blinked at Shiro. “More...more human.”

Shiro exhaled. “The Ripper is a dhampir.”

Allura swore quietly. “Of course –! It is no wonder we’ve been unable to track him with the usual methods. Damn. This does complicate matters.”

“A dhampir?” Keith asked. He’d heard the word used, but knew only that it was one of the various types of vampire.

“Half vampire, half human,” Allura replied, tapping her chin in thought with a long nail. “Immune to many typical vampiric weaknesses, though with more human blood and a somewhat shorter lifespan – still not mortal by human standards, however.”

Keith gawked. “How – how is that even _possible?”_

“Oh, it’s quite possible for a human and vampire to mate,” Allura sighed. “Not recommended, however – heartbreak is inevitable for the immortal party.” Her eyes slid to Shiro and a slender eyebrow lifted high.

Shiro coughed. “Thank you, Keith,” he said. “This will help in apprehending the Ripper once and for all.”

Keith recognized the dismissal, but did not leave. “May I ask,” he whispered, “about the last victim? What happened?”

Shiro frowned. Allura bowed her head. “It was here in Whitechapel...not far from St. Mary’s orphanage. The victim was a young woman. Her body was, ah. Mutilated.”

Keith swallowed. “How many others has he…?”

“This was the third,” Shiro said. “Besides you – the only one of them who got away.”

Both vampires looked at him then with curiosity. “How _did_ you get away, Keith?” Allura asked.

Keith just shook his head. “I – I don’t know,” he said. “I just did,” he added lamely.

“Perhaps he let you go,” Allura mused, but Keith knew that wasn’t it.

There was a long moment of silence, then Allura exclaimed, “Well! Now that _that_ unpleasantry is done, I did want to offer you a gift, Keith. Shiro tells me you’re fond of books, but that his tastes are a little too morbid for you –” Shiro huffed, and she ignored him, “and I thought you might find this one more palatable.” She reached into her dress pocket and withdrew a small but thick book with a red cover embossed all in gold. The title read: _Pride & Prejudice._

Keith took the offered book gingerly. “I...thank you, madam.” He bit his lip. “Does...does it have a happy ending?”

She winked. “We do not _all_ enjoy such dour literature as Lord Shirogane. I think you will find it quite pleasant, albeit dramatic – that is Austen’s specialty.”

“It is not _dour,”_ Shiro protested, but his expression softened when Keith held the book close.

*

Keith crept away to the library for the rest of Allura’s visit, with Shiro’s permission.

At night, the library was both eerie and serene, and Keith sat beside the lamp in Shiro’s armchair, slowly turning the pages of the book Allura had given to him. It was a good book, though the prose was complex and took him longer to parse through. He struggled to keep track of the characters, also, and soon decided the only ones worth keeping track of were Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy, and Mr. Wickham, whom he had immediately decided he did not like.

From the parlor, Allura and Shiro continued to talk, and Keith wondered if they truly would catch the Ripper. One could only hope.

Sometime before dawn, Keith fell asleep in the library, the book slipping from his hands into his lap as he drifted off into blessedly dreamless sleep. Perhaps he dreamed of Mr. Darcy, or perhaps he dreamed of Lord Shirogane, or perhaps it was a man somewhere in between, but he would never admit it to any of it.

When he awoke and the dream broke, it was blearily and briefly, as someone with a cool and gentle touch placed a warm blanket over him and turned out the lamp.

*

Within the first year of his residence in the manor house, Shiro’s study was no longer a forbidden place for Keith – though every foray into it felt like an intrusion, Shiro was quite casual about allowing him entrance, especially on the nights during which he stayed home.

Shiro, Keith had concluded, was lonely. This was perhaps a bold conclusion, but he thought Shiro must be terribly lonely to even consider entertaining the company of a scrappy, human orphan boy like himself. Keith did not consider himself good or even halfway decent company, but he seemed to please Shiro, so he supposed he was doing something right.

They had many nights like this one. Keith walked in with a tray of tea, for he had forbidden Shiro from carrying out that task, and he poured the tea for them both before sitting down with Shiro on the small settee near the window.

Shiro set down the tea after a long sip and handed Keith a book. “Since you finished the last one so quickly,” he said.

Keith took the book with a small smile. _“Moby Dick?”_ he read, and weighed the hefty volume in his hands. “Is this a test of my reading speed, sir? It feels like it.”

Shiro chuckled. “It is not a short book, to be certain. I do hope it will entertain you for a while, and it does feature some excellent illustrations, though it _is_ more ‘dour’ than Allura’s recommendations...in my defense, it is quite hard to top _Arabian Nights._ If this one is not to your liking, there is no shortage of others. Thankfully, there is always plenty to read in the world.”

Keith looked at him, a long and unflinching gaze he would not have dared just a few months ago. “Is that how you keep yourself entertained over the centuries, sir? Reading?”

Shiro gazed back at him, thoughtful. “It is one of the ways, yes. I also enjoy sketching, though it has often proven to be a more frustrating pastime than the escape that books provide. I also enjoy languages.”

Keith tilted his head. “How many do you know, sir?”

“Many,” Shiro replied, with a hint of both mischief and pride.

“I don’t believe you,” Keith retorted.

Shiro hummed, amused, not angry. _“A diabolo, qui est simia dei.”_

Keith blinked. “What does that mean?”

“Where God has a church, the Devil will have his chapel,” Shiro replied.

Keith frowned. “What does _that_ mean?”

Shiro shrugged. “Whatever you’d like it to.”

Keith peered at him. “I don’t think I believe in the Devil and demons and all that, sir,” he said.

Shiro leaned back against the settee. “Then you’re a clever boy.”

Keith didn’t stop looking at him. “Is it real?”

“Why ask me? Do you think me a demon?”

“No,” Keith said after a beat. “But if you aren’t a demon, then where did you come from?”

“If not from Hell, you mean?” Shiro’s mouth twists. “Keith, your guess is as good as mine. Though I was human, once. A long time ago, but human nonetheless, in the beginning.”

“Oh.” Keith drank his tea. “I don’t think you’re from Hell,” he added.

Shiro sipped his own tea, and Keith saw him smile against the rim of the cup. “Thank you, Keith.”

Keith just nodded. “You’re welcome, sir.”

And truth be told, Keith _didn’t_ believe in the Devil – but he _did_ believe that there was something devilish about the way his heart quickened whenever he sat with Shiro so close, and when his gaze lingered on the sweet curve of the vampire’s deadly mouth, he felt damned in a way he could not yet bear to name – nor even knew the name for.

He was not thralled; this magnetic pull was something else entirely. But at times, it felt that he would not mind to be thralled, so long as it was Shiro, and that – that was the most frightening thought of all.

*

On the night after the Ripper’s fourth murder, mere weeks after the third, Keith learned that Shiro’s night terrors were even worse than his own.

The vampire did not cry out, so Keith could not say why exactly he peered into Shiro’s bedroom when he did – a feeling, maybe, a gut instinct that something was wrong behind that dark door.

The noises Shiro did make were low and hurt as he shifted under the heavy blankets, a kind of wretched groaning as if he were being struck again and again, until he had no breath left in his body. Keith called out softly to him from the doorway, reluctant to cross the threshold into the vampire’s inner sanctum.

In the old days, vampires had lairs, not bedrooms with velvet curtains and canopied beds but caves deep in the earth where they would lure and keep their prey, where their thralls remained until they were all used up. Keith was not proud to admit it, but he had searched Shiro’s quarters for any hidden thralls, any stashed bodies or picked-clean bones, and had found nothing — not even a hint of old, spilled blood. He wondered if Shiro fed in his bedroom at all; it certainly seemed as if he preferred to hunt elsewhere. Out of sight, out of mind.

But when Shiro made a louder, worse sound, a strangled cry caught in his throat, Keith found himself stepping forward, drawn to the frantic note in Shiro’s voice, inner sanctum be damned. Keith wasn’t a vampire; he needed no invitation to enter. (He had his doubts about that particular rumor, anyway.)

He tried calling out again, but Shiro only continued to writhe and whimper and groan, each sound more painful to hear than the next. Keith took a deep breath, told himself that it was only right to help Shiro as Shiro had once helped him, and hurried to the vampire lord’s bedside to shake him awake.

As soon as Keith’s fingers touched Shiro’s arm, the vampire’s eyes flew open, and Keith knew he had made a mistake.

Shiro’s flesh was unyielding and cool as stone after rain, his torso rippling with solid muscle and jagged scars as he lunged, throwing back the blankets and sending Keith tumbling backwards, hitting the floor in an ungainly heap. He barely felt the pain of the fall; not when Shiro was braced over him, bare-chested and panting, fangs bared and eyes glowing so brightly that Keith’s eyes stung and watered.

His right hand fisted into the front of Keith’s shirt, claws ripping through his black waistcoat so easily the thick fabric might as well have been taffeta.

It was over in an instant — Keith made a sound, a stammered curse or a shocked whine, and Shiro blinked, his weight over Keith shifting off and away at once in realization, hand releasing Keith’s shirt at once. He did not stand – he looked too weak to stand – but rolled off to lay beside Keith on the rug, his eyes wide and face ashen, gritting his teeth so hard that a slow trickle of black blood leaked from the corner of his lips.

Keith, pulse still racing, fumbled in his pocket and drew out the handkerchief Shiro had given him on that first night, offering it to Shiro. Shiro blinked at him, eyes darting from the rust-spotted handkerchief to Keith’s face, and then absurdly, he began to laugh, low and ragged.

“Sir,” Keith whispered, “are you quite alright?”

Shiro scoffed, hand over his eyes, and took the handkerchief. “You actually kept it.”

Confused, Keith sat up and peered down at the hysterical vampire. “Of course,” he said. “It belongs to you, sir.”

Shiro’s hand tightened around the handkerchief for a second, around the fabric stained with Keith’s blood. Then he drew it briefly up to his mouth, wiping away his own blood, and set the handkerchief aside wearily. “Why didn’t you run?” he asked.

Keith’s eyes narrowed. “Run, sir?”

“From me,” Shiro clarified, and turned his head to look steadily up at Keith from where he still laid on the floor. “Did you not think I was about to attack you?”

“You were just startled,” Keith said. Shiro scoffed again and Keith frowned at him. “Is something funny, sir?”

Shiro sighed. “No,” he said. “No, not funny. It’s just — I think perhaps you _should_ be afraid of me.”

“Well,” Keith said, folding his arms, “I don’t think I am.”

Shiro’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh?”

“Yes, well,” Keith continued, now a bit flustered by Shiro’s intent stare, their proximity, and the increasing awareness that Shiro was both Utterly Bare-Chested and Quite Large, “I’ve been here a year, haven’t I, and you’re quite in control of your faculties. You aren’t mad with hunger like the Ripper, and in any case, running from you wouldn’t do any good; I’m no fool, I know vampires are much faster.”

Shiro’s face fell. He sat up, and when Keith stood and offered him a hand, Shiro took it gingerly and let Keith help him to his feet. He sat abruptly on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. “So you did not run because you knew I would catch you anyway.”

“I did not run because I am your valet, sir,” Keith said sternly. “What sort of valet would I be if I fled from my master?”

“A smart one?” Shiro offered.

“You were having a nightmare,” Keith retorted. “You woke me when I was in distress, remember?”

Shiro flinched. “This – was different.”

“How?”

Shiro kept his head bowed. “In your dream,” he murmured, “you were the victim. In mine, I was the villain. I’ve – hurt a great many people, Keith.”

Keith took a step closer to the slumped vampire. “Did you want to hurt them?” he asked.

Shiro shivered. “I thought I did,” he whispered. “I was wrong.”

“If you could go back,” Keith said, “and make that choice again, would you still hurt them?”

“No,” Shiro breathed. “God, no.”

“Then you aren’t the villain,” Keith said. “And I don’t fear you.”

Shiro exhaled, a long and shuddering breath, and said, “I’m glad you are here, Keith.”

Keith did not say it, but he was, too.

*

Keith was down near the docks later that week to purchase the pomade Shiro liked – an annoyingly specific brand, but at least the barber was a nice man – when he found himself followed by a hooded figure.

They were not the Ripper, for they were not quite as tall, and more slight, but the fact remained that they were a suspicious hooded figure shadowing him through the docks. It was a relief when he reached the barber shop, but when he left it with the pomade, the hooded figure was waiting for him, and he stopped short, uncertain if he should flee back into the barber shop and explain his dilemma to the kind barber.

As if sensing he was on the verge of running, the figure stepped forward and said in a voice that even while muffled was distinctly feminine, “Do not fear, Keith. I mean you no harm.”

Keith stared at them – _her?_ – and demanded, “Who are you?”

“That, I cannot say...but I was a... _friend_ of your father.” The figure glanced to and fro, and under her hood, Keith saw she wore a dark mask that covered her entire face. _Curiouser and curiouser._ “I have a gift to give you. To protect you.”

“From what?”

“Vampires,” the figure said. “The Ripper,” she added when Keith frowned. From her cloak, she withdrew a wrapped package. “It is made of luxite,” she told him, and held it out. “Keep it hidden, and on your person always.”

Keith reached out, then hesitated. “Do you know who the Ripper is?”

She shook her head. “No, but we fear he will come to finish what he started with you.”

Keith’s eyes widened. “Who is ‘we?’”

“Friends,” she said, and shoved the package into his hands. “Farewell, Keith. May we meet again...someday.” Before he could protest, or ask any more questions, she turned and vanished into the crowd.

Bewildered, Keith began to unwrap the package, and froze. It was a curved blade, made of the shining dark metal capable of killing a vampire.

*

Keith hid the knife under a loose floorboard, told no one of it, and tried not to think about why that hooded woman’s voice had sounded familiar.

*

The next time Allura visited, she did not come alone.

Mrs. Holt answered the door, not Keith, for this time they came calling in the early evening when the other servants were still awake. So Keith did not see Allura’s companion until he walked into the parlor to serve them tea – and promptly dropped the tea tray.

The entire tea set shattered at his feet as he stared at the Ripper, sitting on the settee in the flesh.

Shiro rose to his feet as Keith continued to stare, his mouth opening and closing, no sounds coming out. “Oh, dear,” Allura whispered, and as she stood, so did the Ripper. Keith stumbled back, covering his mouth in horror as the Ripper met his eyes. They were the same eyes; Keith was sure of that, a cold blue so pale they seemed almost colorless, flaring with a faint golden light.

Then Shiro was there, steadying him and asking what was wrong, if Keith was alright. “It’s him,” Keith whispered, stunned, clinging to Shiro’s arm but never taking his eyes off of the Ripper. “That – that’s _him.”_

“I’m...sorry?” the Ripper said in confusion. “I am Lord Lotor, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance –”

_“He’s the Ripper,”_ Keith gasped, pointing a shaking finger. “I know it. I _know_ it was him.”

Allura turned to the Ripper, Lord Lotor, her eyes wide. Lotor himself looked shocked, then sat down heavily and said, “So he did return after all.”

Allura sat down with him and laid her hand over Lotor’s shoulder. “We knew it would happen eventually...though not so soon. Oh, dear. This does complicate things.”

Keith stared at them, then up at Shiro, trembling uncontrollably. “You – you’re his _friend?”_ Keith whispered, his voice and heart breaking in one fell swoop.

“Oh, Keith,” Shiro murmured, pulling him closer even as Keith tried to squirm away. “Shh, it’s not – no. Lotor isn’t the Ripper –”

“Let go of me!” Keith cried, shoving at his chest, though for all the good it did he might as well have been trying to knock over a tree. Shiro did let go of him, though, and as soon as he was freed, Keith did run, turned tail and ran up the stairs, on each step expecting to be dragged back down by sharp claws and fangs. But he reached the landing unscathed, and ducked into his bedroom, slamming the door and curling up in the corner on his bed, shaking violently.

It made no sense. How could the Ripper be _here_ – Shiro was supposed to keep him safe, he had promised, and Keith had believed him. He thought of the knife under his floorboards and trembled even more. Had the hooded woman known this would happen? How could Keith possibly fight off three elder vampires, even with a luxite blade? He would have to do something about their thralls – but it wasn’t as if he could blindfold himself.

And it still didn’t make sense that Shiro would do this. He kept returning to that, holding onto it desperately. Shiro wanted the Ripper dead as much as Keith. He hadn’t known. He _couldn’t have_ known. Which meant – oh, no. Maybe _Shiro_ was in danger, now, and Keith had just left him there in the parlor with Allura and the Ripper, and considering that she seemed to be on Lotor’s side –

Someone knocked at his door, and Keith froze, paralyzed in terror.

“Keith.” It was Shiro. “Please, may I speak with you? The man downstairs – he isn’t the Ripper.”

Keith shook his head, biting his lip furiously. _“He is,”_ he whispered. “I know you don’t believe me, but it’s him…”

“No, it’s his twin brother,” Shiro said wearily. “We thought he was dead, because we killed him, centuries ago.”

Keith bolted upright in disbelief. _“What?”_

“Look, can I come in?”

Keith squinted at the door. “Do you actually need an invitation? It’s your bloody house.”

Shiro sighed loudly. “It’s the polite way to enter.”

Keith hesitated, nibbling his lip, then muttered, “Yes, fine, come in,” and held his breath as the door creaked open. Shiro stood there looking rueful and tired, and closed the door after he walked in, which Keith was grateful for. He thought he trusted Shiro, but Allura and Lotor had given him no reason to do so.

“His name is Sincline,” Shiro offered. “Sincline Sinclair.”

Keith sucked in a sharp breath. “Wait,” he said. “The Sinclairs – but they’re –”

“The royal family of Paris’ Midnight Court,” Shiro said, “yes. Lotor and Sincline are the sons of High Lord Zarkon; Lotor is his heir.”

“That’s a terrible name,” Keith croaked, and lay back down, staring at the ceiling. _“Sincline Sinclair._ Hmph.”

Shiro snorted, and cautiously sat in the chair beside the bed. “Yes. As terrible as its owner, unfortunately.” He paused. “I’m sorry, Keith. We should have put the pieces together sooner, so you would not have had to experience...what you just did. But – I swear to you, Keith, the Ripper is not Lotor. What the Ripper does goes against everything Lotor stands for. Sincline, however…” His lip curled. “He always was the, ah, evil twin.”

Keith scrambled to sit up again. “But – but, if that’s Lord Lotor of Paris’ Midnight Court, then Allura – oh. Oh, bloody _hell.”_

Shiro eyed him sheepishly. “Yes, that’s Lady Allura, heir to London’s Midnight Court.”

“She’s a _princess,”_ Keith squeaked. “She gave me books and she’s a vampire princess, _Shiro –”_

Shiro looked pleased that Keith was calling him by his name, which was missing the point entirely. “She did, and she is,” Shiro agreed. “She is also a dear friend, and Lotor’s, ah, wife. I did not want to frighten you by telling you her true identity immediately, but now I see...perhaps I should have.”

Keith took a minute to process this, and thankfully, Shiro let him have it. Then he took a deep breath and said, “Alright. So Lord Lotor isn’t the Ripper, but Sincline is. What do you mean you _killed_ him?”

“I mean, we killed him – as best we could, at the time,” Shiro replied. “We did not have luxite then, which made it more difficult, and we knew he would regenerate someday...though not this soon. He is more powerful than we thought.”

“How did you kill him then – and why? Because he was evil?”

“More or less,” Shiro said, avoiding his gaze. “We cut him up into a hundred pieces, burned them, and buried the ashes. But the means hardly mattered – eventually, he would return, as all vampires do, and apparently, some dhampir as well.”

“And now he has, and he’s murdering people as the Ripper?” Shiro nodded. Keith scowled. “You need to cut him up again.”

Shiro hummed. “No, this time we must do it right, with luxite to the heart. Otherwise, we may very well have to deal with this in two more centuries.”

Keith eyed him. “How did you know Sincline, sir?”

Shiro shook his head. “I didn’t,” he said. “Not well.”

And for the first time, Keith knew that Shiro was lying to him.

*

Shiro left Keith upstairs after he was satisfied that Keith had calmed down, but in actuality, his mind was whirring at a breakneck pace. The pieces were there; Keith just didn’t know how they all fit together. Shiro’s nightmare, his missing arm, Sincline...it all meant something; Keith just didn’t know what, yet.

When the voices downstairs had lowered and subsided, Keith ventured out of his room, and started down the stairs, struck by the oppressive quiet of the house. He thought Lady Allura and Lord Lotor had left, but when he rounded the corner to the parlor, he saw Lotor still sitting on the settee, though this time, Shiro was beside him, instead. Allura was nowhere in sight.

Keith knew he ought to go straight back upstairs. Yet he found himself pressing his body against the wood paneling, crouching down to peer around the furniture at the two vampires. They leaned close to each other, their voices soft and low. Keith could make out most of it.

“...did not intend to startle him, Shiro.”

“I know...seems to be recovering. No harm done.”

“...is it? My brother – he _has_ done harm...must stop him.”

“You cannot blame yourself for…”

“...mustn’t I? I was the one who –”

_“Hush.”_

As Shiro said this, he leaned closer to Lotor, and Keith’s eyes widened in confusion as his gloved hand lifted to brush a strand of silver hair from Lotor’s face. “Enough,” Shiro added. “He will get what he deserves later – right now, cast him from your mind.”

“Really, Shirogane,” Lotor said, even as he leaned back against the settee, “if I didn’t know any better, I would say that you found murder _arousing.”_

Shiro growled, a strange sound that made the hair on the back of Keith’s neck prickle. “The murder of Sincline? Maybe. But this is about you, not him.”

“Oh?” Lotor’s voice was higher, breathy. Keith could not believe what he was seeing. “Missed me, Shirogane?”

“Mostly just your blood,” Shiro retorted, and Lotor laughed, lifting a hand to sweep Shiro’s forelock out of his face and tip his head up to kiss him deeply. Keith covered his mouth to stifle his gasp. What _was_ this? He should not be here. He should leave, yes, _at once –_

Abruptly, Shiro broke away from Lotor’s mouth with a wet sound, nuzzled into his neck, then yanked back the dhampir’s high collar and sank his fangs into Lotor’s throat. Lotor keened, his body arching up into Shiro’s, forcing a thigh between Shiro’s legs as he moved over Lotor, pinning him to the cushions. Lotor held Shiro’s head to his neck with ivory-knuckled fingers as he fed, his head fallen back and mouth open in what looked like ecstasy, his silver hair spilling out over the plush red pillows.

That was the day Keith learned that dhampir blood was a shade darker than a human’s, and that Lord Lotor was having an affair with Lord Shirogane.

That was also the day he became suddenly and irreversibly aware that he was jealous of Lord Lotor, an emotion which made no sense until after Lotor left hours later.

Keith, pretending at innocence, drew up a bath for Shiro and found himself lingering a moment later than usual, watching from behind as Shiro shed his trousers and sank into the bathwater, tinging it pink with the dhampir blood streaked all down his broad chest, taut stomach, and below.

*

Keith had never thought he would have feelings for a vampire. Alas, that was his life, now: sixteen, in love with a vampire lord, and also the valet for said vampire lord.

Truth be told, Keith did not know if it was _love,_ of the sort Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy spoke of. He only knew that he wanted Shiro, and that he should not. Certainly, Shiro gave no indication of wanting him back, and though Keith might have been alarmed if he had, his heart ached nonetheless for a man he could not have. A man who might have very well been more of a monster, considering how many nights he returned bloodied and unrepentant, but a very handsome man who treated Keith very well nonetheless.

Keith wished he could have said he never watched Shiro and Lotor again after that first night, but that would be a lie. It was not something he was proud of, and he never stayed long, always afraid of being caught in the act. Afterwards, he would lay in bed and imagine how it would be if Shiro was the one pinning him to the settee, tracing Keith’s veins with his teasing tongue, slipping his hand down Keith’s –

Keith could never imagine these things for too long, or he would just end up frustrated and hot and altogether uncomfortable. He never touched himself. He may not have believed most of the nuns’ teachings, but he could believe _that_ was a sin readily enough, if only so he would not have to add an additional shame to the sin of spying.

To be fair, the nuns had never _explicitly_ said one should not _watch,_ but it was probably implied. He never stayed long enough for clothes to be shed, anyway. That, he felt, would be too much of an invasion of privacy. He crossed some lines and drew others to make himself feel better.

He did feel bad for Lady Allura at first, but soon began to wonder if she knew. It seemed impossible that she would not, and she made plenty of suggestive comments – at least, Keith thought they were suggestive, but perhaps his high-strung brain was just playing tricks on him. That was definitely a possibility. He sometimes felt he read _every_ conversation as pertaining to unmentionable things, in some way or another.

Keith often thought he was going mad. Or maybe he was just growing up. Either way, it was a sweaty and messy business, and he did not like it.

The worst part by far was the dreams. He could banish forbidden thoughts of Shiro in the waking world easily enough, but in his sleep, all bets were off. Keith was certain there was something wrong with him, so often did he imagine the sharp slice of claws and the swift sting of fangs.

Yet, when he awoke, buried at the heart of the shame was the sense that he was not wrong to feel such things, for in every slice and sting there had been an undeniable tenderness, and in the glowing golden eyes gazing down upon him in the darkness of those dreams, there was both a wicked promise and an aching fondness.

Keith awoke remembering that the most. How would it be for Shiro to look at him with such affection, to touch him with such sweetness, to bring him such pleasure? It could not be, Keith told himself firmly...but if it was...

Once, Keith had feared that Shiro might expect certain duties of him as a valet, before he had known what a valet really was. That fear was rather gone now, and Keith wasn’t sure that was a good thing. Objectively, of course, he should be afraid of Shiro. It would be healthy to do so. But Keith found desire outweighing any remaining vestiges of the fear — and that frightened him more than anything else. He could not stop himself from dreaming of being Shiro’s pet, his own personal thrall, to be spread out on the sofa beneath Shiro’s crushing body, sordid fantasies that curled up deep in his subconscious and refused to leave. Shiro would never — do such things with him. Keith knew that. But what if he _did —_

_Gah_. Keith was losing his mind, slowly and helplessly, with every imaginary pinprick of fangs in his throat.

He avoided Shiro as best he could, which was difficult considering he was Shiro’s manservant, but he kept what little distance he could. He did feel bad about it when Shiro asked from time to time if he was alright, clearly unsure why Keith was so cool towards him, but it was better for them both this way.

Besides, there were other things to worry about.

He was well aware that Shiro, Allura, and Lotor were planning how to catch and kill the Ripper. Their tea times were increasingly long and serious, and Keith was politely barred from the room. He suspected this was probably because he had once overheard them discussing the logistics of using a human as bait, at which point Keith offered to participate, and Shiro gave him such a look of displeasure that Keith had to fight the urge to cower. Needless to say, he did not bring it up again.

They took too long to plan the Ripper’s demise, because on a stormy night, he made his fifth kill, and it was someone from St. Mary’s. Keith saw the headline when Colleen brought in the newspaper at breakfast, and stared at the lurid black and white photograph splashed across the front page, skinny white limbs tossed akimbo, dark and torn up all in-between. Keith was glad it was not in color, but he thought he might be sick, anyway.

He went to Shiro’s bedroom. He was not supposed to; it was mid-morning and Shiro needed his sleep. But it was a quiet place, a safe place, and so Keith padded across the rug and sat before the window, looking out at London and wondering why that photograph had not been of him.

In the window, his reflection was a faint ghost of a boy, and when he tilted his head, he swore he caught a flicker of yellow in the dark shadows of his eyes.

It was, of course, just a trick of the light. But Keith sat there a while longer in the silence beside the slumbering vampire lord, watching his reflection, and thinking very hard about what the Ripper’s photograph would look like as he touched the raised scar across his neck.

*

The following night, Shiro left and did not return.

Keith stayed up. He forced himself to. It wasn’t that he did this every night – often, if Shiro had not returned by the time the clock struck three, he would collapse into his bed in defeat. But tonight was different. It was _colder;_ Keith could not explain the feeling that prickled over his skin like a sixth sense. He found himself restless, pacing to and fro until he had to stop for fear of waking the other servants. Something was _wrong,_ out there in the rolling fog and wan pools of lamplight, out where Shiro was.

It was this certainty that drove him to take the blade from its hiding place and tuck it into his waistcoat pocket – awkward though it was to carry around without a proper sheath, it made him feel more secure.

He waited with bated breath, for some reason certain that a scream might at any moment split through the air; but there was not a sound save for his own shallow breathing. At length, he was rubbing so much sleep from his eyes that he decided to go downstairs and make a pot of tea to keep himself awake, sleep be damned. The shriek of the teapot as the water boiled startled him so badly that he almost shrieked, himself, but he quickly took it from the stove and went about making the tea, slow and methodical.

He wondered why it was that vampires could drink tea. Shiro had told him once, but Keith had been distracted by the way Shiro’s hands moved as he talked, and the way his right hand curled around his teacup, the delicate porcelain cup dwarfed by his gloved, clawed hand.

Keith had a fixation, perhaps, but that was neither here nor there.

The tea was nearly done brewing when Keith heard the footsteps, creaking slow and heavy over the floorboards. He paused, not moving a muscle, not daring to breathe. The footsteps were not human, too quiet to be human – yet Keith heard them. They were coming closer. They were – breathing, no...sniffing. Scenting the air.

Keith gripped the hilt of the blade, hidden inside his unbuttoned waistcoat.

Then the voice echoed through the house, quiet and sing-song. “Here, piggy, piggy...I _know_ you’re here. I know you ran to the Champion to save you – silly boy.”

Keith swallowed, slowly turning around, facing the kitchen door.

“Not going to run away this time, I hope. You could try...but you won’t get far.” The footsteps stopped right outside the door. The voice was so loud, so _close,_ that Keith’s knees nearly buckled from under him. “But you aren’t going to run from me, are you? You know there’s nowhere you can go where I won’t find you. You know this is the end.”

The door opened, slow and creaking, to reveal the Ripper. His long white hair was tangled and red with blood, his cracked lips parting to reveal jagged fangs like broken glass, and his eyes, those strange colorless eyes, began to glow with a terrible light from within.

“No,” Keith whispered, trying to turn away, to close his eyes, but he was already caught fast in the Ripper’s thrall. “Let – let _go –”_

“You’re a powerful one, to resist me so well,” the Ripper cooed, advancing in languid strides. Up close he smelled like dying things, cloying and rotten. “It’s almost a pity. For what it’s worth...I think I’d like to turn you, if I could.” He cupped Keith’s face with his hand, and it was slick with blood, sharp nails digging into Keith’s clammy skin. “But, alas. You may not _quite_ be a dhampir, but I suspect you cannot be turned, either. Between the two of us, I’m doing Shirogane a favor. Better you die now, before he becomes too attached.”

Keith didn’t understand the Ripper’s words, only that he thought he was about to die, but that he did not _want_ to die, and the longer he stared into the Ripper’s all-consuming eyes, the angrier he felt. His fingertips twitched. The Ripper’s gaze flickered, and a tremor went through Keith.

_“Let go,”_ he whispered, low and vicious, his fingers curling fully into fists at his sides.

The Ripper’s eyes narrowed. “Now, why would I do a silly thing like –”

The center of the Ripper’s chest parted in a violent splatter of blood and viscera and black claws, and he staggered down to his knees as Keith scrambled away with a cry, the thrall snapping like a thread, like the Ripper’s spine as he fell.

Shiro was standing behind him, but Keith did not recognize him as Shiro. His cloak and waistcoat were torn to ribbons and the flesh beneath was bloodied; everywhere was blood, black and red, and his eyes burned as he flung the Ripper’s body away from Keith, so hard that it cracked when it hit the stove.

Yet, the Ripper, somehow, still lived. He lifted his head with a demented grin and began to laugh in breathless delight. “Here we are again, Champion,” he said, eyes fixing onto Shiro without fear, only sharp amusement and blinding madness. “I know – how this goes. What – will you use – this time?” he gasped. “A butcher knife – or maybe – your own hands –”

Shiro snarled wordlessly, chest heaving and right hand curled into a fist as his side, messy with gore.

The Ripper’s eyes brightened and darted to Keith. “Or maybe – I’ll just tell him to cut his throat – and you could watch him die like all the others – _bleeding helpless at your feet.”_

Shiro moved so quickly that Keith wasn’t sure what had happened. One moment he was standing above the Ripper with unbridled fury, the next, the Ripper was still and unmoving, a glittering stiletto buried in his forehead like a botched lobotomy. Keith recognized the metal. He slumped against the kitchen table. “He’s dead,” Keith whispered.

Shiro turned to look at him, and his expression was so utterly _lost_ that it took Keith’s breath away. Then he took a step towards Keith, and promptly collapsed on the bloodsoaked floorboards.

Keith ran to him, checking for signs of life, but vampiric pulses were so faint anyway that it was difficult to tell what was wrong with him. That soon became clear, however, when Keith saw the huge wound across his side, a series of ragged claw marks inflicted with as much cruelty as possible, rending through flesh and muscle alike. Shiro’s blood was black; Keith knew this, but seeing so much of it was overwhelming, as if Shiro were covered in oil that never stopped flowing, staining his clothes and silver hair; there was far too much of it.

Keith tried to haul him up, but Shiro was a deadweight in his arms. “Wake up,” Keith pleaded, again trying to lift him, arms trembling with the effort. “Shiro, please, I can’t just leave you here.”

There was no response from the vampire, but the third time Keith tried to lift him...it worked. With a strength Keith did not know he had, he dragged Shiro to his feet and then, with great effort, slung Shiro’s limp body half over his shoulder, staggering under the weight. It was not graceful, but Keith gritted his teeth and carried Shiro out of the kitchen and upstairs, painstaking step by step, pausing to catch his breath only once before moving on. The luxite blade was heavy in his waistcoat, and Keith made certain not to let it even brush against Shiro. The vampire was badly hurt enough as it was.

By the time he reached Shiro’s bedroom, it took a herculean effort to deposit Shiro not on his bed, but in the bathtub, because if Shiro lived through this he would never forgive Keith for staining his Egyptian silk sheets. Anyway, Keith needed to clean him up. He didn’t know how vampires healed, except that they did it much faster than humans, but when he checked Shiro’s side, the wound looked worse than before, torn wider by Shiro’s clumsy ascent.

Keith tried in earnest not to panic and only half-succeeded as he ripped away the rest of Shiro’s shirt, tossing its remains with his stained cloak and surveying the damage. It was very bad, more wound than not. There was no way around that. Distantly, Keith wondered where Allura and Lotor had gone. Were they killed in the fray? Was Shiro the sole survivor?

These were the thoughts darting through his head as he cleaned Shiro’s bloodied chest as best he could with a damp cloth and a small pile of clean towels; their white cotton quickly turning filthy as Keith struggled to stem the constant flow of blood. At length, he sat back on his heels, helpless and frustrated, watching a new thick trickle of metallic black ooze down Shiro’s stomach. What should he do?

No – what _could_ he do?

The answer came at once. Keith was no expert on vampires, but he knew well enough that they healed faster after feeding, or at least it made them stronger. He wet his lips, then reached for the luxite blade. It was cold against his forearm, and he glanced at Shiro for a long moment of trembling uncertainty before increasing the pressure of the sharp knife just enough to split skin.

It hurt more than he had expected, though not like the Ripper’s bite – nothing could hurt as much as that. There was also far more blood than he expected, and Keith cradled his bleeding arm to his chest with a sense of mounting panic when the flow did not ebb. The cut was not large, but perhaps that didn’t matter. Perhaps he had slashed some vital vein like a fool.

Keith grit his teeth. Well, he wasn’t about to waste it. He shuffled until he was leaning against the bath, and held his arm over the tub, wincing when his blood began to drip onto Shiro’s pallid face, a single droplet sliding down over the curve of his lips and disappearing between them.

Shiro’s lashes fluttered and he drew in a long, shuddering breath followed by a lower sound, a rasping groan that Keith felt deep in his gut. Keith saw him swallow, an unconscious movement, and then his eyes opened in bleary golden slits, fixed on Keith.

“Drink,” Keith whispered, trying to lift his arm closer, rivulets of red slipping down his skin and soaking his palm, “sir, _please,_ you have to –”

Shiro blinked, some clarity returning to his gaze, but when he looked at Keith, there was none of the hunger he had expected – only horror.

When he sat up, it was clumsy but urgent, with a wordless gasp, and when he grasped Keith’s wrist and fit his mouth over the cut on Keith’s arm, it was not followed by the sharp prick of fangs, but the slow wet lap of his tongue. Keith stared, uncomprehending, his fingers curling as the pain in his arm lessened, and with it, the flow of blood. When his limp arm fell from Shiro’s grasp, the cut was gone.

Shiro smiled faintly, slumping back against the tub, his mouth smeared with red that he made no attempt to lick away. “There,” he mumbled. “Better?”

Keith gawked, then snapped, _“No!_ You were supposed to drink it, not _heal_ it, you foolish vampire!”

Shiro sighed, and shook his head, closing his eyes with a pained expression. “She will be here soon,” he murmured. “Don’t hurt yourself for me.”

Keith sucked in a furious breath. “You are _dying –”_

Shiro shook his head again. “Don’t,” he repeated, and then softer, pleading, “please, Keith. Swear to me you won’t.”

Keith looked at him, his chest a tangled briar patch of hurt and fear at seeing Shiro this way. “Fine,” he said at last, “but you must swear to _me_ that you will not die, sir.”

Shiro laughed quietly, but there was something terribly sad in it. “I will do my best,” he whispered.

*

Allura arrived just before dawn with a haggard Lotor close behind. They also looked injured, but neither were half as bad as Shiro, and when Keith answered the door, not bothering to clean the black and red blood from his clothing, the two vampires stared at him with palpable apprehension.

Keith made no attempt to explain himself. “He’s upstairs,” he said shortly. “He is unwell.”

“Yes,” Allura whispered. “I can feel it. May we –”

“Yes, come in,” Keith sighed, starting up the stairs without looking to see if they followed.

They did, of course, but halfway up, Lotor said, “He’s here, too – is he not? The Ripper?”

“Shiro killed him in the kitchen,” Keith replied. Lotor swore under his breath. “Hoping he would escape, sir?”

“No,” Lotor retorted. “He is my brother in blood alone. He died in my eyes and esteem a long, long time ago.”

Satisfied with this, Keith led them the rest of the way up without comment, and stood awkwardly off to the side as Allura and Lotor went to Shiro where he lay inert in the bathtub.

Keith’s blood had long since been washed away from Shiro’s face after it became clear he wasn’t going to even try to drink it, so no evidence of Keith’s attempt to save him remained. Both vampires took note of the pile of dirtied towels, though, and Allura thanked Keith quietly before kneeling next to Shiro and placing her hand over his forehead.

Shiro moaned weakly at her touch, turning his face towards her and trying to reach up in turn. She shushed him, her lips parted and eyes falling shut in concentration. “He is weak,” she declared, “but it is nothing that cannot be mended. He needs blood and a great deal of rest.”

“Allura,” Shiro rasped, fingers slipping from the edge of the bath. “M’sorry...for running from you all those years ago...I…”

“Hush,” she repeated, but there was a note of pain in her voice this time. “You were forgiven long ago, Takashi,” she added, brushing his hair from his face. “All will be well.”

She nodded then to Lotor, who lifted his own forearm to his mouth and bit into it, his dark red blood flowing as Keith’s had, but when he lifted the wound to Shiro’s lips, this time the vampire latched on and began to feed desperately. Keith looked away.

_Why was mine not good enough?_ he thought, a ridiculous thought, surely, but one that rankled at him nonetheless.

Allura stood once she was certain that Shiro was drinking and healing, and as she approached, Keith held himself tense and taut.

“You were very brave,” she told him.

Keith frowned. “It would have been braver if I helped you hunt the Ripper, madam.”

Allura regarded him. “If you had helped us hunt the Ripper, you would be dead.” It was matter-of-fact, without any room for doubt.

Keith flinched. “You don’t know that.”

“I know a great many things,” she said, walking to the window with her perfect grace, holding her head high as she looked out at London’s sunrise. “I know your death would have destroyed Shiro, for example.”

Keith narrowed his eyes. “What…?”

“He did not tell you, I suppose,” Allura sighed. “He was close to his last steward and valet, in a different way than he is close to you, but close enough that when Shiro received word of his death a month past, it hurt him badly.”

“Adam –” Keith swallowed. “He did not tell me.”

“Of course not,” Allura said. “Shiro is not one to let others share in his private grief. Particularly not others he fears losing.”

Keith shook his head. “I am just his valet.”

She snorted. “Right.”

“How did Adam die?” Keith asked.

Allura frowned. “He was attacked,” she said. “By one of us.”

“Not the Ripper?”

“There are many Rippers in this world,” Allura murmured. “You would do well to remember that.”

Keith hesitated, and as if sensing it, Allura turned to look at him, steady and patient. “Is…” Keith bit his lip. “Is Shiro one of them?”

Her face fell with a heartbreaking elegance. “Do you think he is?”

Keith thought of Shiro’s plea, of his lips on Keith’s skin, gentle and careful not to harm even when Keith gave him the option to do so on a silver platter. He thought of why he had even wanted to give Shiro that option at all. Slowly, he shook his head. “No,” he admitted. “But I think he believes he may be...a bad person.”

Allura nodded, troubled. “He may very well believe that,” she agreed. “But the choices he made, the things he did...Keith, you must understand those choices were not his own. He did not make them of his own free will. He was...used. Manipulated, terribly.”

Keith’s eyes widened, then his hands curled into fists at his sides. “By whom? Who did that to him?”

“It no longer matters,” she replied. “What is done is done. Yet Shiro feels great guilt for what was done.”

“But why, if it was not his fault…?”

“The things he did were with his own hands,” Allura murmured, “forced though his hand was. One does not simply forget such things...how it felt to have hands that hurt and kill.”

They were quiet then, and Keith looked back at the bathtub, only to see Lotor bowed over Shiro, one arm draped over his neck, speaking softly and stroking Shiro’s hair as he fed.

“Ah,” Allura said. “Yes. I thought you might have noticed that.”

Keith shook his head. “Why do you let him betray you?”

Allura hummed. “It is no betrayal,” she said. “I have Lotor’s heart and soul. If he chooses to give Shiro his body and blood when he wishes, then that is his business.” When Keith continued to frown at her in disbelief, she sighed and added, “They are two of the people I care about most in the world, Keith. I love them both, though in quite different ways. I am Lotor’s mate and Shiro’s sire, you see.”

“Sire…?”

“The one who turned him,” she replied, and Keith’s jaw dropped. She chuckled. “Not what you expected?”

“But you – I mean – how old are _you?”_

Allura grinned and wagged a finger at him. “Don’t you know it’s rude to ask a lady her age?” In a stage whisper, she added, “Older than both Shiro and Lotor.”

“And how old is Lotor?”

She eyed him, considering. “He and Shiro are, I believe, two hundred years apart.”

“Lotor is _five hundred?”_ Keith hissed, grateful Shiro had helped him with his numbers, but also so shocked that he could hardly comprehend them.

“Mm.” She tilted her head. “He and Shiro were both children of the Renaissance.”

“And what were you a child of?”

She chuckled. “You are just as Shiro said,” she mused. “Fearless and relentlessly curious.” But then she smiled, and said, “I was a child of the Golden Age.”

“And when was that?” Keith whispered, though as he looked into her glittering eyes and serene smile, he knew the answer was a long, long time ago.

“I was born when Al-Azhar, the first mosque of Cairo and my first home, was completed,” Allura said, “nine hundred and eight years ago.”

“Al-Azhar?” Keith repeated, dazed. _Nine hundred and eight._ Ancient, yet standing before him in the flesh; the flesh of a young woman with the eyes of a queen.

_“_ It means _most luminous,”_ Allura said, and cupped his cheek, tilting his chin up until his eyes met hers. “You are not just a valet to Shiro. You are luminous to him, Keith. More than you know. And beings of the shadows like us need the luminous in our lives.”

She brushed her thumb over his cheek, and gently guided him out into the hall and into his room. He went without protest, awash with awe in her presence.

*

When Allura and Lotor had left, content that Shiro was no longer on Death’s door, Keith did not leave, but remained at Shiro’s bedside, head in his hands, thinking on what Allura had said, and what Shiro had said — _don’t hurt yourself for me._ He thought of what the Ripper had said to Shiro, too — the threat he had made to kill Keith in front of Shiro, to watch him die, _like all the others._ Keith had a million questions, but Shiro was not one to answer generously, nor was he in any condition to do so.

When Shiro did wake up, it was a very quiet thing. His lashes fluttered, parted, and he inhaled softly, staring up at the canopy. Without looking at Keith, he said, “You should be asleep.”

Keith stared at him. “Couldn’t,” he said. “Someone had to look after you.”

Shiro’s brow creased ever so slightly. “That’s not your job, Keith.”

“Then what is?” Keith demanded, leaning forward in his chair.

Shiro’s voice was sad, suddenly, low and mournful. “You’re so young,” he whispered. “A child, with your entire life ahead of you. Don’t chain yourself to me.”

“I’m not chained,” Keith said indignantly. “And I’m not a child —”

“Yes,” Shiro said. “You are.” He closed his eyes. “I can’t even remember being a child,” he admitted. “Perhaps I never was one.”

Keith frowned. “Nonsense. Everyone was a child, once.”

“So certain,” Shiro murmured, but the corner of his lips curled, and his gaze slid slowly to Keith. “Keith?”

“Yes?”

“Did you…” Shiro wet his dry, cracked lips. If Keith looked closely, he could have seen the flecks of dried dhampir blood there, but he forced himself not to look at Shiro’s mouth for too long. “What was your life, before the orphanage? I don’t recall seeing you there as a very young child. Did someone...care for you, before that?”

Keith paused and looked down at his hands. “Yes,” he said. “I had a father. For a while. I don’t exactly know how old I was when he…” He cleared his throat. “There was a fire. The roof of the building we were living in, the tenement house, it – it collapsed. My father threw me out the window right before, and I…” He shook his head. “I don’t know how I survived. It was a long fall. I don’t remember hitting the ground. But I remember the flames, and him saying goodbye.” Keith swallowed. “He knew he wasn’t going to make it out of there.”

“But he knew that you had to,” Shiro murmured. Keith looked up at him, startled. Shiro smiled, small and sad. “It’s good that you remember your father. Memories are precious things.”

Keith nodded, and drew in an unsteady breath. “What _do_ you remember, Shiro?”

“Before I was turned, you mean?” Keith nodded. Shiro hummed. “It feels like someone else’s life,” he admitted. “And I do not remember my father. Not his voice, not his face, nor even his name. But I had one. I’m sure I had one. A mother, too – sometimes I think I’ve remembered something about her, something little yet real, but it’s all just sand through the hourglass.” He sighed. “We lived in a forest by the sea. I remember that much. There was an orchard. With apples, I think.” Shiro shivered, his gaze unfocused, far away. “I’ve forgotten how apples taste, too.”

“I could try to describe it,” Keith offered. “If that would help?”

Shiro made a low sound. “Please.”

“Well, some of them are sour, and some of them are sweet, and some of them are in-between,” Keith tried. “The sweet ones are, um...like honey, almost, but solid, and juicy, and sometimes when you get a really fresh one, the juice runs down your chin and it doesn’t matter how warm it is outside, the juice is always cool, and so is the apple skin, and sometimes that gets stuck in your teeth, but –” Keith faltered. There were tears in Shiro’s eyes, a few spilling free and sliding down the curve of his cheek. “...Sir?”

Shiro shook his head. His breath hitched. “It’s fine, Keith. Thank you.”

“Are you alright?” Keith said, hushed.

Shiro squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes.”

Keith hesitated. “Sir?”

“Yes, Keith.”

“Did you – did you _want_ to be turned into a vampire? Did Allura do that...against your will?”

Shiro’s bleary eyes cracked open. “No,” he said. “She did it to save my life.” He smiled grimly. “I was sick. I was going to die...and I was so very afraid of death.”

“How old were you?” Keith asked, wondering if Shiro had forgotten that, too.

“I was twenty-eight, or at least, that is what Allura tells me, and I am inclined to believe her.”

“Twenty-eight,” Keith repeated, a bit stunned. “But...but that’s...young.”

Shiro snorted. “Well, yes, there was a time when I wasn’t so old and decrepit.”

“You aren’t,” Keith said, and amended, “well, you _are_ old, sir, frightfully old, in the sort of way that London is a frightfully old city, but you’re certainly not decrepit.”

Shiro raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“No,” Keith said firmly. “I mean, you’re hardly feeble, in any sense of the word, and you don’t have a single wrinkle.”

“I have a few wrinkles,” Shiro muttered. “And I am in bed, infirm, at the moment. If I had not been given blood, I would not have recovered.”

Keith’s brow furrowed, struck by a foul suspicion. “You refused my blood. Did you do that – because you _wanted_ to die?”

Shiro was quiet. He folded his hands neatly over the blankets and said, at length, “You should not have done that, Keith.”

“Don’t turn this on me, sir,” Keith warned, and the vampire turned to look at him with evident surprise. “I asked you a question.”

“An impertinent one, yes,” Shiro retorted, and Keith faltered, reining himself in, realizing that he must have overstepped. Shiro’s expression was cold, closed-off. “I do not expect you to understand my thoughts on mortality. You are – what, fifteen now?”

“Sixteen,” Keith muttered, “sir.”

“You see?” Shiro laughed, a quiet and bitter sound. “A single year matters so little to me that I cannot even keep track. Sixteen, then – a mere heartbeat.” He tilted his head. “So, you’ll forgive me for not knowing how to express to you what I feel on the subject of death, and why, were it to come for me, I might not resist it so much. Death means nothing to you.”

Keith stood abruptly. “You don’t need to be so condescending, sir. I had hoped you saw me differently, but now I understand perfectly well that you think I am little more than a foolish child. I was just trying to help.”

Keith started towards the door, and Shiro drew in a sharp breath. “Keith – I don’t see you as foolish –”

“As a child, then,” Keith snapped, “because who can possibly compare to your infinite wisdom and grief, or whatever it is that you believe sets the two of us so far apart!”

“We _are_ set apart – very far apart, Keith, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy your company and value your thoughts –”

“Goodnight, sir,” Keith said, reaching for the doorknob, still stinging at Shiro’s paternalistic tone, intended or not – he didn’t appreciate being treated as someone unworthy, someone too young and stupid to understand, even if there might have been a grain of truth in it – he could at least try to understand, but Shiro would not even allow him that!

“I didn’t take your blood because I didn’t want to take your life,” Shiro said suddenly, just as quiet as before, but the words rang out like a tolling bell in the dark room.

Keith froze on the threshold, and turned back just a little, enough to give him a questioning look. “What? You wouldn’t have done that.”

“You slit your wrist for me,” Shiro retorted. “Why would you do that, Keith?” His tone had become something pleading, almost painful. “Why wouldn’t you just let me die, and stop stealing others’ life to feed my own, once and for all?”

“You weren’t stealing anything,” Keith said, confused, “I was offering it –”

“Never do that again,” Shiro warned, and in the dimness, his eyes burned a scorching gold. Keith swallowed hard. “I don’t need your blood on my hands too.”

“But, sir –” Keith started.

Shiro held up a hand. “Promise me you will never do that again.”

Keith stared at him. “I – you would just have me let you die, then –?”

“I said, promise me.” A growl slipped into it, now.

Shiro was not using his thrall, but the vampire’s countenance was not one to be refused, nonetheless. So Keith nodded jerkily. “I – I promise.”

Shiro slumped back down against the pillows. “Thank you. For...the promise, and the apples.”

Keith edged towards the door, a distance between them that he did not like, nor knew how to bridge. “Goodnight, sir.”

Shiro did not answer, and Keith left him there, alone in the dark.

*

After that night of the Ripper’s death, Shiro was different – distant, almost clinical.

In short order, he sold the house on Warden Street and moved the entire household to West End, to a far more lavish residence abutting Hyde Park, near Grosvenor Square. It was a place dripping with such blatant wealth that Keith found himself always on edge, for he had learned well that the rich were often far crueler thieves than the poor, in their own ways.

Keith had expected that Shiro would stay well away from his neighbors, but was proven wrong when Shiro threw his first soirée at the new house, an event that Keith and the other servants were barred from in no uncertain terms. Keith found himself spirited away with Colleen to stay the night with her and her impish daughter, Katie, in their far more humble home in Hampstead. It was not a very long cab ride north, but all the while, Keith pressed Colleen for details about what was going on in the house they were leaving.

She was quite uncomfortable about it all, and would only say that “Lord Shirogane was _enjoying_ himself,” and “All will be well in the morning; it always is.”

Keith slept poorly that night, and not just because he was kept awake by Katie, who demanded to show him her little clockwork creations. He had never met a ten year old so capable of making wind-up toys, but it was difficult to focus on them when his thoughts drifted relentlessly to Shiro. He realized then that he did not know _who_ Shiro fed on, nor _how._ He had seen Shiro with Lotor, but dhampir blood could not be enough for a vampire to subsist off of alone, surely.

Surely.

In the morning, while Katie slept, Keith asked Colleen about it. She paused in slicing the bread for breakfast and looked at him without humor.

“You truly wish to know?”

Keith nodded, arms folded. “Yes. Why? Is the truth so terrible?”

“No,” she sighed. “Not terrible...but not pleasant, either.” She finished slicing the bread, wiped the flour from her hands, and said, “Lord Shirogane and his friends feed on thralls — humans who come to them of their own free will, but truth be told, I do not know how free that will can be when they are under the vampires’ control by the end of it.” Colleen sighed. “It is best not to think of these things, Keith. I know only that Lord Shirogane prefers his victims willing, and that eases my conscience a great deal.”

“Thralls...” Keith whispered. “But why the parties?”

“They are like banquets,” Colleen said. “For vampires. It is why we are banished from the premises, Keith. We would be in danger if we remained.”

Keith said nothing more, and when their cab arrived again at the house beside Hyde Park, he braced himself for what they would find within those doors. But all was clean and tidy. Shiro was asleep upstairs, but when Keith checked in on him, he found the vampire flushed with color, hair mussed and lips fainting smiling, faintly stained.

Keith tried to feel more repulsed than aroused, and failed, despite everything.

He did not dare to ask Shiro about the soirées, half for fear that Shiro would be cold with him again, and the other half for fear that he would be cold to Shiro and say something he would regret.

As it was, Keith was struggling with maintaining any sense of civility, for besides the soirées, without any explanation except “business,” Shiro left for Brighton thrice in the next few months, and did not take Keith with him. Keith was secretly quite distraught about it, and when Shiro did return, Keith could not stop himself from moping as the vampire continued to politely ignore him.

“How was your trip, sir?” he asked as he unpacked Shiro’s luggage, the same luggage he had packed two weeks before.

“Acceptable,” Shiro said. Keith frowned at him, but Shiro did not seem to notice. He was terribly distracted, fiddling with his cuffs and collar in inexplicable agitation. The vampire had maintained the imposed distance between them, whether purposefully or not, and the whole matter made Keith rather miserable.

“Just acceptable?” Keith snapped.

Shiro blinked at him, puzzled. “Mm. Yes. Are you alright?”

“Nevermind that,” Keith snapped, and shoved the suitcases away into the wardrobe before leaving the room in a huff, though he had not been dismissed.

Shiro did not ask after him, and like tea left to brew too long, Keith’s bad mood stewed cold and bitter.

Shiro held another soirée not two nights after, and that was the last straw. Oh, Keith left easily enough; he took the cab with Colleen all the way to Hampstead, and he waited until the maid and her daughter were both fast asleep before ordering another cab, which drove him straight back to Hyde Park just before dawn.

The horizon was not yet light, but faded to the dark blue between night and sunrise as Keith stepped out of the hansom cab and walked across the street to Shiro’s home. There were a few lights on inside, and Keith proceeded warily, on guard, so that when a figure ran, stumbling, from the house, it startled him so badly he swore.

The figure gasped, their movements sluggish and clumsy, and it was not long before they tripped over the cobblestones and fell in a crumpled heap. Keith ran to them, and found they were a young woman, undressed down to her undergarments and wearing only an undone translucent robe over them, with a patchwork of neat bite marks all over her neck and shoulders and arms. She stared up at him with blown pupils, tears streaming down her face, and when she met his eyes she sagged in relief.

“You aren’t one of them,” she gasped, and began to weep in earnest. “Oh, God, I thought — I thought I would never get out of that wretched place —!”

Keith held back his rage, but just barely. “Shhh,” he murmured, quickly taking off his coat and wrapping it around her shivering shoulders to afford her some decency. “What happened to you? Did they bring you here against your will?”

She nodded miserably, head in her hands. “They told me it was a party,” she whispered. “A ball, a masquerade! I was so excited, but then — then I couldn’t move, couldn’t get out, and there were so many of them, everywhere; it was like a nightmare from which I could not wake!”

“Please, wait here,” Keith said, but she looked at him in blatant terror, and he reconsidered. “No, nevermind — I have a better idea. Come with me.” He drew on her hand and led her back towards the house.

She cried harder. “No! No, don’t bring me back there, don’t —!”

“Not inside,” Keith said. “In the garden, here…” And he showed her a little hiding place among the hedges, and promised he would return to her, for the woman was confused and bloodied and unclothed, so he was loath to send her off onto the streets alone.

He was also loath to step inside the house he thought he called home, but knew he must. She huddled there, weeping quietly, but thanked him for the coat and looked at him with hopeful eyes when he promised her he would make things right, and set off to make good on those promises. He braced himself, hurrying up the steps and shoving the front door open, surprised to find it unlocked.

The smell was what hit him first. Keith had not encountered it before on this scale, but there could be no mistaking it, especially when he saw the bodies sprawled out in the foyer in various states of undress. The entire house _reeked_ of sex, with some sharp undercurrent, hard and metallic – blood. Keith swallowed, conscious of the knife hidden under his waistcoat, hoping he would not have to use it.

The sprawled figures were both vampire and human, and Keith held his breath, stepping careful and quiet through splayed limbs and discarded clothing, hardly able to comprehend what he was seeing.

By the time he realized that he would likely find _Shiro_ in this den of carnality, the shock was wearing off, replaced by burning anger. The thralls were _willing,_ were they? Then why had that poor girl been here at all? Did Shiro _know_ that not all of the thralls – perhaps none of them! – wanted to participate in this bacchanal?

Keith found Shiro in the parlor, fast asleep on the settee, with a dark-haired man in his lap and another resting his head on Shiro’s knee, snoring and drooling all over Shiro’s trouser leg. A small mercy that Shiro was somehow fully dressed (the two thralls were most certainly not), but it did not tame Keith’s fury at all. He did not think when he saw Shiro and his messy hair and reddened lips and unbuttoned waistcoat. He just stormed towards him, and with every ounce of indignation he could muster, smacked Shiro across the cheek none too gently.

The vampire jolted awake, the movement knocking the first thrall from his lap and onto the second one. Both awoke with yelps, and Shiro shook himself, blinking rapidly at Keith, eyes darting around, then narrowing. Keith could tell Shiro was about to scold him and he was not having it.

_“What is this,”_ Keith snarled, and Shiro’s eyes widened, mouth closing at the sight of Keith’s genuine anger and disgust. “And don’t you _dare_ tell me you were just having fun, or that they all wanted it, or that I couldn’t possibly understand, because I arrived to see a woman running injured and unclothed from _your_ house, saying she was lied to and taken here against her will!”

Shiro opened his mouth, then closed it, concern creeping into his face. “I...I see. It would seem...some of my guests have lied, then, about their companions. They are all supposed to be willing thralls –” He frowned. “Keith, you should not be here. It is dangerous –”

“It was dangerous for her, too, but she didn’t get a say in it!” Keith hissed. He stabbed a finger into Shiro’s waistcoat and the vampire stared at his finger, then back up at him. “Get them out of here,” he snapped. “Now. And make sure the humans are safe and not taken away with them or – or –”

Shiro frowned at him. “Or what, Keith?”

Keith glared at him. “Or I’ll leave!” he declared, because it was all he had. “I’ll leave, right now, walk out that door and – and never come back.”

_“Keith,”_ Shiro said, stricken.

Around them, people were stirring awake. Among the vampires in the next room, Keith saw a familiar face as Lotor sat up, yawning like a cat. It just made him angrier. “I’ll do it,” Keith whispered fiercely. “Nothing is stopping me. The Ripper is dead – I don’t need you anymore.”

It was a lie and it stung, badly, just to say it. As he said it, though, Shiro’s face smoothed over and took on an eerie and inscrutable expression.

“No,” Shiro said. “I suppose you do not.”

Keith took a step back. “That’s it, then? You’re just going to let me go? Let them keep hurting people –?!”

Shiro shook his head, jaw tight. “Either leave, or go upstairs,” he said. “You should not be here, and you are making a scene.”

It was true; vampires and humans alike were now openly staring at them in confusion. Keith’s lip twisted. “I don’t care,” he said. “You want me to stop? Stop me, then. Thrall me. Make me follow your orders, or tear out my throat for insubordination; I don’t care, not if you’re going to let innocents get hurt here, under your roof, at your stupid parties.”

Shiro’s mouth twitched, and for a moment Keith saw behind the mask, and saw that his expression was not truly one of detached disdain but one of _hurt._ “That was not my intention,” he murmured. “Nor would it ever be my intention to harm you.”

“Too late,” Keith spat before he could think better of it, and turned on his heel, and walked out the front door. Nobody tried to stop him, and he went straight to the hedges to retrieve the young woman. He hesitated, looking up at the house for a long moment, and found the lump that lodged in his throat at the mere thought of leaving was a painful and unmoving stone, one that grew ever heavier at the thought of leaving Shiro.

He brought the woman in through the servants’ entrance, and from there up the back staircase, where he brought her to Colleen’s quarters and made sure she had a clean set of clothes and a warm bath, along with some vittles from the kitchen. After eating, the woman collapsed into the deep sleep of sheer exhaustion on the bed. Keith would make his apologies to Colleen later.

Keith did contemplate leaving then, again, and found it as difficult as before. Maybe it was that expression on Shiro’s face, or the way his words had wavered in a way they so rarely did; for his manner was so often completely controlled that when he did falter, it was all the more evident. Or maybe it was because Keith had nowhere else to go – but no, that was not quite true.

Keith had enough saved up from his wages that he could rent a fine place elsewhere, but the idea held little appeal for him. His purpose, he felt, was here. With Shiro. He hoped, anyway.

He was already regretting his outburst, though he felt it was justified. Yet...he recalled what Allura had said, and frowned to himself. Shiro was already guilty, already thought himself monstrous. Keith could have at least spoken with a bit more tact. Unfortunately, he was not good at tact. But...he could try to be better, both for Shiro and for the unwilling thralls.

Keith went to his bedroom and sat there beside the window, trying and failing to read, looking out between the curtains as the vampires left in a ragged procession, filing into their cabs and carriages and driving off into the rising dawn. There were no humans among them, Keith noted. That was promising, at least.

Then a new carriage arrived, and out stepped a woman in blue. Shiro met with her briefly, and then a few more carriages arrived, and a huddled group of humans wandered out down the front steps and into them. They looked disoriented but were clothed, and Keith could tell – somehow – that the woman in blue was human, not vampire.

The carriages drove off, and all was still as the sun rose at last.

Keith stayed in his room beside the window, watching the pinkening sky of a rare clear day in London, and was so engrossed in the spectacle that he did not hear Shiro ascend the stairs or walk down the hall past Keith’s closed door, to his own bedroom. He did not close the door, and this was why Keith slowly became aware of the sound of weeping, quiet but certain.

Keith stood, heart in his throat. He opened his door and started down the hall, then paused before Shiro’s cracked-open door, realizing he did not know what to do, what to say. Apologize, perhaps? Apologize, but make it clear that he was still upset with the thralls’ treatment? Or should he just – be there?

He took a step forward, and the door creaked open, and Shiro looked up at him from where he sat on the edge of the bed. All at once, he went stiff, back straight and lips pressed into a thin line as if Keith would not see the shine of tears in his eyes. He cleared his throat. “I thought you left,” Shiro said.

“I didn’t leave,” Keith said, rather unnecessarily. “I – are you alright, sir?”

Shiro drew a hand across his face. “No. Clearly not.” Keith opened his mouth, brow creased, but Shiro held up a hand. “Don’t apologize; I can tell you’re about to, and you are not the one who should. I was careless, and people got hurt. If you wish to leave, you have every right to do so.”

“I don’t,” Keith muttered, “wish to leave, that is. But I don’t want those people to get hurt, either.”

“Nor do I.” Shiro sighed. “I thought my days of inflicting such suffering were over, but evidently I was wrong.”

Keith frowned. “Wait. No, that’s not right. _You_ were not the one hurting them, sir.”

Shiro’s eyes were dull. “No, just the fool who called their tormentors my friends.” He shook his head. “I can guess at which ones broke the rules, and though it’s quite possible the thralls’ memories were wiped, they may be able to give Veronica their statements.”

“Was that the woman dressed in blue?” Keith asked. Shiro nodded. “Where did she take them?”

“Veronica runs a hospital, of sorts,” Shiro said. “Nothing like Bedlam; don’t look so horrified. They’ll receive proper care there and most importantly, protection against my kind, for as long as they need it.”

“Thank you for doing that,” Keith said.

Shiro eyed him grimly. “It was no easy thing to separate them,” he said. “Some of my guests were quite _invested_ in their thralls. I have just made many enemies, I think – and I doubt this is the end of it.” He cleared his throat again and stood. “I will have to fix this, regardless. Thank you for, ah, alerting me to it, though I wish you had stayed in Hampstead and had not seen…” He coughed.

Keith folded his arms. “I am nearly seventeen and I grew up in Whitechapel, _sir,”_ he retorted. “If you think I have not seen doxies and tramps doing business in the streets before, you would be wrong.” Shiro turned pink and Keith huffed, though his own face was also growing warm. “In any event,” he continued hastily, “you do not have to fix this alone, sir.”

Shiro’s brow furrowed. “Pardon?”

“I believe it’s high time I became your steward,” Keith said. “A steward runs the household, does he not? And if soirees are held in that household, a steward would run those also, would he not?”

Shiro blinked at him. “You’re serious.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Keith frowned. “Or do you think I can’t handle it?”

Shiro rubbed his temple. “Keith, that’s not – these vampires are dangerous, and powerful besides. Some of them hold seats on the Court, and others have their hands in all manner of shady business. It won’t be so simple as banning the ones who we think have broken the rules, and trying to discern which thralls have come voluntarily will be nigh-impossible.”

“For one vampire, maybe,” Keith said stubbornly. “But for a vampire and his steward, I think it is quite possible.”

Shiro stared at him for a while longer, then sighed. “Not yet,” he said. “You cannot be my steward yet.”

“And why not?” Keith demanded, readying himself for another fight, though he found he didn’t really want to fight with Shiro – not now, not ever. He just wanted, desperately, for Shiro to see him as worthy enough to fill this role.

But Shiro did not fight him. He said with a glint in his eye, “I must take you to Brighton first.”

“What is in Brighton?”

“The future,” Shiro said, and went to his wardrobe, pulling out two traveling trunks, this time.

*

They took the train to Brighton the next night. Shiro stayed awake, of course, looking out the window with silent serenity, but Keith found himself unable to sleep. He kept thinking of the young woman, who had since been returned safely home, but who had looked at Shiro with such fear when he bid her farewell.

“You’re nervous,” Shiro said without turning to look at him. “Why?”

Keith did not answer for a while, and when he did, it was with care. “When you said your time of inflicting suffering was over,” he murmured, “what did you mean?”

Shiro tensed. “That is a long story, Keith,” he said.

Keith watched him, not wanting to overstep again. “I didn’t mean it, you know,” he added. “About – not needing you. I do, I think. Not for protection against the Ripper, but just…” He hesitated. “As a friend.”

Unblinking, Shiro’s gaze slid from the nighttime landscape to Keith. “Are we friends?”

Keith felt small and silly then, and hunched his shoulders. “Perhaps not. I suppose servants are not really _friends.”_

“I do not see you as a servant,” Shiro said, still looking at him. “I do not believe I ever have.”

Keith inhaled, startled. “Oh.” He swallowed. “I, ah, do not see you as my master, sir.”

Shiro’s lips quirked. “Yes, that is obvious.”

Keith blushed. “Sorry.”

“No, you aren’t.” Shiro turned back to the window. “Nor should you be. Your disobedience can be refreshing.”

Keith squinted at his back, uncertain what to make of that.

“But you asked what my cryptic comment meant. Well...after Allura turned me, I rejected her as my sire.” Shiro said it casually, but on the narrow windowsill, his fingers tapped out an anxious tempo. “I was afraid, and angry. I didn’t understand what she had done to me, and...the connection to one’s sire is very intense, especially when it is new. So I ran from her. Tell me, Keith, what do you know of the Unsired?”

Keith bit his lip, remembering what little the nuns had told him on the subject. “I thought they were the, um, wild vampires. The ones that act more like animals.”

Shiro made a quiet sound. “Yes. Without a sire, the transition from human to vampire is all the more violent and disorienting. Allura searched in vain for me, but I continued to flee. I was afraid of her and afraid of myself, and when I made the mistake of venturing too near to human villages, people became afraid of me, too.”

“You were newly turned, you couldn’t control it,” Keith muttered, though his heart beat faster at the thought of Shiro prowling through the dark woods, hunting in the hills and heaths for his unsuspecting prey.

“No,” Shiro agreed, “but _he_ could. He found me after I had slaughtered a, ah, a family. An entire farmhouse, soaked in blood. I thought he was the answer to my prayers, at first. He took me to his home, to a place where I would not have to hunt, to kill. He gave me thralls and showed me how to create them. He showed me how to control the hunger, how to hone my power into something other than chaos.”

“Who was he?” Keith whispered, already fearing he knew.

Shiro’s shoulders slumped. “Sincline,” he said. “He was my sire in those years. I trusted him. I would have done anything for him. He knew that. And I did, eventually. I did many things for him, all of them evil and twisted. And he did those things for his human mother, and she did those things for...I don’t know, really. She said she sought immortality, a way to live forever that would not transform her into one of us, but by the end of it, I think she just craved the power. She and her son delighted in cruelty and killing and they did their best to make me like it, too.” He bowed his head. “By the time I realized I was just another one of their prisoners, doing their dirty work, it was almost too late.”

Keith wanted to touch him, to lay his hand on Shiro’s arm or shoulder or lean close against him, some sign that would make Shiro know that Keith did not fear him, even knowing these awful things. But he did not. He just said, “How did you escape?”

“Allura found me,” Shiro said, relief evident in his voice. “And Lotor. They had been hunting Sincline and found me first, and took me from him. I fought them, at first...but one knows when they are finally with good people after being misused by bad ones for so long, I think.” He tilted his head. “I helped them kill Sincline that first time. It was the first time it felt truly right to take a life. It felt like justice. I don’t know if it was. I don’t know if any kind of killing is justice. Are you not a murderer, either way?”

“You aren’t a murderer, Shiro,” Keith said.

He hummed. “Just because it has been some time since I last killed an innocent does not mean it never happened.”

“You saved my life when you killed Sincline,” Keith whispered. “I won’t forget that, Shiro.”

Shiro did not look at him, just continued to _tap, tap, tap_ his fingers, his reflection a silvered ghost on the glass.

Keith hesitated. “The Ripper,” he murmured, “he called you The Champion.” Shiro stopped tapping. “Why…?”

Shiro’s snort was soft and self-derisive. “Because I was the best of them,” he said. “The best of his killers.”

Keith fell silent, looking down at his lap. He wet his lips. “You could have killed me, that day I came to you,” he whispered.

Shiro stiffened, turning jerkily to stare at him. “Keith, I would not have –”

“No, but if you were truly a killer, you would have,” Keith continued softly. “No one would have ever known what you did, Shiro. I had no one left in the world who cared for me – the nuns certainly wouldn’t have gone searching for me if I went missing. One less mouth for them to feed. You could have taken me into your home under the guise of sanctuary and slaughtered me for yourself, and it would have been the most easily-kept secret in the world.”

Shiro’s face was pale and stricken then; something like agony etched in the pale slash of his mouth and the dark hollows of his eyes. “But you trusted me not to do that,” he whispered. “Why, Keith? What made you think I was any different from the Ripper?”

Keith looked back at him, his fingers itching to reach out, to assure with a touch he could not give. “I don’t know,” he admitted, and leaned back against the seat. “Just a feeling, I guess.” He glanced at Shiro.

Shiro swallowed, still not breaking his gaze. “I am glad,” he murmured, “that you found me that night, Keith. I am glad that you – trusted me to keep you safe.”

Keith’s heart pounded. He wondered if Shiro could hear it. “Yes,” he said. “So am I.”

*

The house in Brighton was grand but quiet. Keith took a liking to it immediately, though as they started up the grand drive towards the old country manor, he told Shiro that it seemed to be the perfect place for hauntings.

Shiro eyed him. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

“If vampires exist, is it really so odd that ghosts might, also?” Keith retorted.

Shiro shrugged. “I suppose that depends on whether or not you consider vampires to be beings of magic or science.”

“I think you’re more of an authority on that,” Keith said. “What do you consider yourself, hm?”

Shiro thought for a moment, paused mid-step. “A bit of both,” he finally said, and continued up the steps to the door.

Keith was about to ask if Shiro had more staff here, servants to run this other household, but before he could open his mouth the door was flung open by a gangly young man wearing thick spectacles who looked remarkably like a teenage version of Miss Katie Holt.

“Lord Shirogane!” he exclaimed, and sank into an awkward bow before scrambling out of the way, grinning ear to ear. Keith blinked at him. Who was this man?

“Thank you, Matthew,” Shiro said, and gestured for Keith to follow as they stepped inside. Keith at once became aware of an odor in the air, sharp and metallic, but laden with something acrid like smoke. He looked to Shiro, who gave him no sign that he noticed anything was amiss, and followed Matthew down the hall, and then to a large room that must have once been the parlor.

Now, it had been transformed into a laboratory.

“Ah! Lord Shirogane, sir, pleasure to see you, I trust your journey went well?” The man addressing him was taller and older than Matthew, but with the same thick spectacles, hazel eyes, and hair that kept falling in his face, though his hair was graying and his eyes were lined with fine wrinkles.

“Thank you, Samuel,” Shiro said, stepping into the room and grasping the man’s offered hand in a gesture of unmistakable fondness and respect. Keith was still gawking at their surroundings – some contraption of glass beakers, tubes, and vials was all set up along the far table, and beside the sofa, which was stained beyond repair, bubbled a large vat of something sort of...reddish.

Shiro stepped aside, revealing Keith and his staring. Samuel smiled kindly at him as Shiro said, “Samuel, this is Keith, my former valet and new steward in training. Keith, this is Dr. Samuel Holt and his son, Mr. Matthew Holt. They run my business here in Brighton while I am away...and provide their valuable expertise as doctors, of course.”

“Hello,” Keith croaked, staring at the bubbling vat. “Er, may I ask, what...this is?”

Matthew and Dr. Holt exchanged looks. “I did not tell him,” Shiro said apologetically. “I thought...it might be better if you explained it.”

“Right,” Dr. Holt said, straightening up and smoothing back his hair. He gestured to their surroundings with an unmistakable air of pride. “This laboratory is one of many throughout this house, the largest of which is in the cellar, where we store all of our samples and solutions. I am the head scientist on the project, my son here is my assistant, and we have several other scientists who come and go in between doing field work, which is vital to our process here.”

Keith continued to stare at the vat, and Dr. Holt cleared his throat. “Yes. Right. That, dear boy, is our newest batch of Sanguis Novus. Or, for those of us not quite so fluent in Latin as Lord Shirogane: New Blood. Sounds much less mysterious in English, hm?”

Keith’s eyes widened. “That –” He pointed to the vat with a trembling finger, “is _blood?”_

Shiro chuckled and squeezed his shoulder. Keith was so startled by the contact that he almost missed Shiro’s reply. “No, it isn’t blood, and that’s rather the point,” he said. “It’s a...mm, replacement.”

“Well, it’s not there yet, unfortunately, and I think we’ve a ways to go until it’s a replacement proper,” Dr. Holt added, “but it’s more of a supplement, as it is. Would you like to taste test when this batch is done, sir? Ina is already asleep; our last batch had some interesting effects on her circadian rhythms...though not the intended effects on her hunger.”

Shiro frowned thoughtfully. “I will try it, if you wish. How many batches have you been making, Samuel? Don’t rush through it; these supplies only last so long, and some of them are quite rare and expensive, as you well know.”

Dr. Holt cleared his throat. “Er, yes. I know. Apologies, sir, I got carried away. But I can’t help but feel – we are so close! Some day, we will find the right formula, and that day will be a marvelous one!”

Shiro smiled, and it was genuine, not pained. “Good work, Dr. Holt. Don’t forget to get some sleep yourself, from time to time.”

“I’m afraid we are quite nocturnal, sir!” Dr. Holt exclaimed, and went back to his vials and vats.

Shiro led Keith away, upstairs to the bedrooms so they could put their trunks aside. “Is it possible?” Keith whispered. “For vampires to live off of – what, blood that is not blood? How?”

“I do not know if it is possible,” Shiro admitted, “but I must try. Alchemy is an old art, one that has been too often used for evil ends. I have to believe it can accomplish great things, also.”

“So this is your business in Brighton?” Keith asked. _“Sanguis Novus?”_

Shiro’s lips quirked. “This is one of them,” he said. “The other is elsewhere, and less exciting, but it pays the bills.” Keith narrowed his eyes, and Shiro sighed. “If you must know, it is a shipping company that specializes in vampiric artifacts. I have contacts all around the world and make deals with them to bring their artifacts to England.”

“Do you sell them, then?” Keith asked. “Or put them in museums?”

“Oh, neither,” Shiro said. “We research them, or rather Allura and Lotor research them. I am more of the middleman for them.” He raised an eyebrow. “I do sell a few of them; the ones not worth researching. Or send them back from whence they came.” He scowled. “I cannot tell you how many tomb raiders have come to me with stolen mummies, demanding some unreasonable sum for them. There is only one acceptable way for me to deal with such people.”

“Kill them?” Keith suggested.

“Wh – _what?”_ Shiro looked at him askance. “No, that’s – no.” He huffed. “I just frighten them all the way back to Egypt. It’s quite remarkable how quickly people agree to put mummies back where they came from if you inform them their family line will be cursed for a thousand generations, otherwise.”

“Will they?” Keith asked curiously.

Shiro snorted. “No. But it’s rude to raid tombs.”

Keith furrowed his brow. “Even if they’re very old tombs filled with gold and jewels?”

“Especially then,” Shiro huffed. “Don’t become a tomb raider, Keith.”

“I was not planning on it,” Keith retorted. “And I don’t think that’s among my valet duties.”

“Steward,” Shiro corrected.

Keith blinked up at him. “Really?”

Shiro shrugged. “Sure,” he said, eyes bright. “You know about Sanguis Novus and you’ve sworn never to raid tombs. I think you’ve proven yourself worthy of the title.”

*

Keith slept in late, and found himself blinking groggily to warm country sunshine bathing his bed in golden yellow, and a large tabby cat purring in the crook of his arm. Keith stared at the cat, then gave it a tentative poke, and a green eye cracked open with sleepy curiosity. “Huh,” Keith said. “I didn’t know Shiro had a cat.”

“Mew,” said the cat, and it got to its paws with a yawn before stretching and leaping off the bed. Keith followed the cat downstairs, avoiding the parlor and searching instead for the kitchen.

He found it, but it was already occupied, and not by the cook. Keith doubted this house even had a cook, judging by the state of the kitchen, which was somehow both a mess and intricately ordered. The person standing on her tip-toes to reach a jar of tea was certainly not the cook — Keith knew before she even turned around that she was a vampire. The back of his neck prickled in her presence, and he just — knew it.

When she did turn around, it became clear that she was not only a vampire, but a very tired vampire. She rubbed at her dark-circled eyes and yawned like the cat had, running a hand through her short blonde hair. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Dr. Leifsdottir. You’re a new human, hm? Not part of Dr. Holt’s adventures, I hope.”

Keith squinted. “Does he perform human experiments?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes. They’re always paid well, though, no coercion, if that’s what you’re worried about. And he doesn’t perform the experiments on them, no, of course not. Just takes a bit of blood.” She licked her lips and glanced around. “Mm...speaking of which…”

“I’m Lord Shirogane’s valet — steward,” Keith said hastily.

Dr. Leifsdottir paused. “Oh?” She lifted a thin brow. “Shame about Adam, hm? Humans are really far too delicate. Best to keep one’s distance, no offense. I tried telling Lord Shirogane about that, but why would he listen to a century-old like me?”

“Ina. Keith. Good morning.” Keith turned, surprised to hear Shiro’s voice — he usually slept much later. He looked tired, but upright, and lifted the tea off the shelf that Dr. Leifsdottir had been struggling to reach.

She pursed her lips at him. “And what are you doing awake? You smell like hunger and sleep-deprivation.”

“Flattering,” Shiro said dryly. “I wanted to test Dr. Holt’s newest batch on an empty stomach, if you must know.”

“And during the daytime?” Ina asked skeptically, as if she wasn’t also spurning her nocturnal nature.

“It’s an interesting variable,” Shiro said, and turned to Keith. “Have you had breakfast?”

Keith was about to answer, but then Shiro took a step closer, his pupils suddenly dilating, nostrils flaring. “Um,” Keith said, “no, sir…?”

Shiro abruptly turned away and scooped up the tabby cat, who was attempting to skulk through the kitchen. “I’m glad you’ve made the acquaintance of Mr. Tibs,” he said, scratching the cat gently behind the ears. After some rebellious squirming, the cat gave up and started purring again. “Mr. Tibs IV, technically.”

“You’ve had four cats named Mr. Tibs?” Keith managed, still dumbstruck by the way Shiro had looked at him, with what, he was sure, was open hunger.

“And three Tabithas,” Ina added. Shiro huffed at her, then cooed to Mr. Tibs and poured him a saucer of milk from the cupboard.

“You know that’s not good for him,” Ina scolded.

“But he loves it,” Shiro retorted, fondly watching the cat greedily lap up the milk. “Keith, what do you say to eggs and toast?”

“I — that sounds wonderful, sir, but —” He broke off, stunned, as Shiro took eggs and toast from the pantry and went about lighting the stove. Ina caught his eye and shrugged, then winked, before leaving them alone.

Shiro burnt the toast and the eggs were more poached than sunny-side, but Keith ate it all under Shiro’s approving gaze, sure that his cheeks were bright red all the while.

*

Keith was exploring the horrifyingly dusty upstairs library when Shiro burst in, a wild gleam in his eye, and declared, “We are going on a _picnic.”_

Keith looked outside at the golden late-afternoon sun, then at Shiro, then back again. Slowly, he set down the book he had been dusting, and said, “Sir, that seems like a poor idea.”

Shiro waved a hand. “Nonsense! Fetch your coat. We are going, at once. It’s a beautiful day, and I have not picnicked in the orchard in years.” When Keith continued to eye the sun doubtfully, Shiro rolled his eyes and added, “I’ll bring an umbrella, don’t fret.”

So they went on a picnic, ill-advised though it may have been. (When Keith asked for some vampire sun protection from the Holts and nervously inquired if Shiro was alright, Matthew informed Keith that this batch of Sanguis Novus seemed to have an unanticipated manic effect on Shiro, but assured him it was temporary and nothing to worry about. “At least this one isn’t making him vomit uncontrollably,” Matthew added. “Now _that_ was bad.” Keith didn’t ask, because frankly, he didn’t want to know.)

If he was being honest, it was...nice, actually, to see Shiro like this – so carefree. It was also strange to see him in the light of day, all swaddled up in his coat with his black umbrella, peeking out at the sun above and beaming without a single care to who saw his teeth. In fact, it was the most Keith had ever seen him smile, which was a bit of a sad thought – it took a bad batch of fake blood for him to look so happy.

Shiro had the carriage take them down the road aways, until the sea came into clear view over the pale chalk cliffs. Keith pressed his nose to the window, staring at the lovely choppy blue of the ocean in wonder – he had never seen it so placid and picturesque before, at least, not outside of oil paintings.

He wondered if Shiro was so daring – or foolish – as to attempt swimming. Keith couldn’t swim, but it was not unpleasant to imagine Shiro trying to teach him...perhaps at night, when Shiro could bare himself to the darkness without worry. Keith shivered at the thought of Shiro’s hands on him, holding him up above the rolling waves. Shiro, he was convinced, would not let him drown.

But the carriage didn’t take them down to the seaside. Instead, it rolled to a halt at an overlook on the cliffs’ edge, beside a great sprawling apple tree, the largest Keith had ever seen. Under the apple tree was a single stone – a grave, Keith realized. He looked to Shiro for explanation, but received none.

The vampire just smilingly unloaded their picnic basket and sent the carriage off with instruction to return at a later time. So it was that they were left in the shade of the apple tree, beside the single grave, with an extravagant picnic spread. Keith sat awkwardly on the edge of the blanket, looking from the intricately arranged tiny sandwiches to Shiro, and said, “Er...you can’t eat any of this, can you?”

Shiro gave him an enigmatic shrug and uncorked the wine bottle, pouring them each a glass. “Well, I _could,_ technically, but I would _probably_ regret it.”

“As your steward,” Keith said, “I would advise you against it.”

Shiro grinned, wide and dopey. “What a good steward,” he declared, and sighed, sitting back on his elbows and turning his head to look at the grave which lay about ten feet away, nestled at the base of the tree. When Keith followed his gaze, he could see the name on the gravestone, and faltered.

“Adam – was buried here?” he asked, stumbling over the words, though Shiro looked impassive, perfectly calm and serene, wine glass in hand.

“Mm,” Shiro said, tilting his head at the grave, “yes, it seems so, doesn’t it?” He sighed again, this time looking up towards the tree branches, his face dappled in golden sunshine. “He always liked Brighton. He was always out here, painting it. He had an eye for those things. They tell me he was killed while painting, near these very same cliffs...they found the body below.”

“Below?” Keith whispered, pulling his coat tighter around him though it was a balmy day. “You...you don’t think he...jumped, then?”

“No.” Shiro scoffed. “He was pushed...or rather, discarded. His neck was torn open, by some passing hunting vampire,” he said. “And he wouldn’t have...done that. He had too many dreams for that. Too much ambition. He had an eye for the future, too. I suppose that’s why he left me, in the end.”

Keith peered at him, the question burning on the tip of his tongue. “Shiro?”

“Hm?”

“Were you and Adam –” He drew in a breath. “Did you love him?”

Shiro chuckled. “Ah, what a question.” He looked back down at the grass, brushing his fingertips over it, the motion thoughtful, gentle. “I loved him,” Shiro said, “as much as a three century old being can love anything.”

“What does that mean?”

“Sometimes I wonder at how we can love anyone at all, anymore. Maybe we can’t.” Shiro hummed and closed his eyes, but his expression was not peaceful any longer – his face was twisted ever so slightly in a subtle but complete sense of sorrow. “It’s very difficult to love someone when you know they’re going to die,” he murmured. “But even more difficult to let them go, knowing that.”

Keith’s eyes widened. “You wanted to turn him?”

“I don’t know what I wanted,” Shiro mused. “I wanted...company, certainly. I wanted from him what he could not give.”

“And what was that?”

“Forever.” Shiro shook his head. “But I didn’t want to be his sire, and he...mistook my reluctance for rejection.” Shiro squeezed his eyes shut tighter. “I did not know how to tell him that I was afraid to turn him, because I was afraid I would make him just as cruel and monstrous as Sincline made me.”

“But Sincline wasn’t your sire,” Keith said.

“He was when it counted the most,” Shiro retorted. “And ever after, there has been a part of me shaped by him and his influences. That part...it must never be passed on.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works,” Keith told him.

“Perhaps not,” Shiro said, “but I couldn’t risk it, and so I lost him.”

“It isn’t your fault that this happened,” Keith said, looking towards the grave that Shiro was now avoiding making eye contact with. “Sometimes people just – leave.”

Shiro’s eyes cracked open. “Sometimes,” he agreed, looking at Keith. “But you haven’t.”

“No,” Keith said firmly. “I don’t intend to, either.”

“And why not?” Shiro asked.

“Because I like...this,” Keith said, gesturing around them vaguely, his face warming as he said it. “I like spending time with you.”

Shiro raised an eyebrow and shifted forward just a little. “Is that so?” He smiled, and this time, he showed his teeth. “You’re turning red.”

Keith cleared his throat. “It’s warm.”

“It is,” Shiro said, leaning back again and sighing. “I missed the sun, you know.” Keith had not known. “I could probably shed my coat and stand there, enjoying the sunshine, for a minute, perhaps thirty seconds, before my skin began to burn, bit by bit.”

“Please don’t do that, sir –”

“I won’t,” Shiro said. “Third-degree sunburn is an awful way to go.”

“And dying of mortal wounds and starvation in a bathtub is better?” Keith said before he could stop himself.

Shiro paused, and gave him a queer look. “You’re still stuck on that, aren’t you?” He sighed. “Better, perhaps not, but easier? Yes. I was resigned, you know, to my fate that night. I thought that if I perished, good riddance – the world would be rid of the Ripper and myself in one fell swoop. But then you...oh, you just had to complicate things.”

“Sir? I don’t understand…”

“You thought I was worth saving,” Shiro said, “at your own expense. Why?”

“Because – you saved me,” Keith said, fumbling for the words that would even begin to express what he felt for Shiro, an emotion he was not even sure of, himself, “and you’re a good person – don’t scoff, you are; you’ve been good to me.” He frowned down at the grass. “It didn’t seem fair that you would just die, after all that. It didn’t seem fair that I was going to lose someone else, either.”

Shiro looked at him in a new way. “Oh,” he said. His voice and expression softened. “I didn’t realize my passing would have...affected you.”

“Of course it would have!” Keith exclaimed. “Don’t be absurd.”

“You’re young,” Shiro started, and when Keith bristled, he hastily added, “and I don’t say that to demean you, but to speak the truth, and to say that I honestly thought you might grieve briefly, but would move on, and find your life elsewhere, and happily forget me.”

“I don’t want to forget you, Shiro,” Keith said firmly. “And I don’t want to find a life elsewhere. I’ve found my life already, and unless you plan to replace me with another steward, then –”

“I don’t,” Shiro said at once, with such conviction that Keith shivered. “You’re a good valet, Keith – and I know you’ll be an even better steward.” He drew in a breath, gaze sliding to Adam’s grave, silent and serene in the dappled sunlight. “But I need you to understand what you’re getting into, especially if you’re serious about reforming the soirees and the thrall practice.”

“I am,” Keith said at once. “Are you?”

Shiro inclined his head, his eyes soft and dark, and in that moment Keith would have trusted Shiro in anything, in everything. Perhaps it was foolish to trust someone so much, but Keith’s instincts had always served him well, and with Shiro, all of Keith’s innate wariness faded away – it had been that way from the start, truth be told.

“Yes. I have done many wrongs,” Shiro murmured, “and if you will help me to right those wrongs, then I would be honored.”

“And it would be an honor to serve you in this, sir,” Keith told him.

“You are not my servant,” Shiro reminded him. “You are my partner in this, if we are to do this. And again, I will warn you that there are dangers to this life, a life with me – though I can promise you that so long as you are by my side, I will do everything within my power to keep you safe.”

“As will I for you, Shiro,” Keith vowed.

Shiro smiled. His fangs gleamed, and Keith was not frightened of them for a second. Shiro picked up his full wine glass, and Keith did the same, peering at him with an open curiosity, and no small measure of excitement. “To the future, then,” Shiro said, lifting his glass.

“To the future,” Keith agreed, and touched his glass to Shiro’s in a musical chime of promise.

Keith didn’t know what the years ahead would hold, except that they held Shiro, and right then, that was more than enough to anchor him, warm and wine-drunk in the golden sunshine under the ancient apple tree, with his very old, very lovely vampire right beside him.


End file.
